Hot Water Poem
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2009
Hot Water Poem
Don't fall through the cracks,
through the floorboards
past the pipes
hot water hissing
grey metallic stun gun dull.
Don't land on the basement steps,
slipping on down
bumping the back bone
breaking the fall
with your body gone white like you know it so well.
Don't let the swallow of house
and of home
Don't wish the outside
would stop looking in
and impute ugly motives
to trees and to flowers
who have your best interest
in chlorophyll hearts.
Don't taste the floors
on your way down to hiding
Don't dine on splinters
and varnish and wine
Don't master silence
when no one is looking
Don't close your eyes
and pretend you are fine.
Don't slip on sentences
you uttered years ago
down in the basement
Don't waste your sentiments
or your existence
on hiding the fact
that you are
what you're not
Don't laugh at paintings
with eyes that console you
on walls that you hung
last July on a whim
Don't think the walls
don't expect you
to call them
if you are in trouble
and losing your color from somewhere within
Don't apply pressure
to fissures in floorboards
to fit your way through
what you lose
It's a lot stronger
to stand and absorb it-
surroundings adore you,
implore you to chose.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
Hot Water Poem
TEEN AGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES!!
One day I came home with the flu.
My mother gave me a bowl of stew
All I can say is that the stew was thick like goo.
I still ate it thinking it was chicken stew.
Saturday morning I woke up watching Winnie The Pooh.
Mother made me a sandwich that was hard to chew
In the kitchen I saw 2 strange looking shells
Once I saw them I started getting dizzy spells
Eating turtle soup with out having a clue.
Made my face turn green and blue.
Walked into the living room.
My stomach still felt kind of doom.
My mother was watching the tube and singing along
Singing along to the,"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" song!
NOW THAT WAS WRONG!!!!!!
TWO TURTLE DOVES
During Christmas, I always go hunting in the woods
I set out traps to catch me some goods
I caught two turtle in my first trap
Poor little things where full of crap.
I was singing "On the first day of Christmas" on my way back.
All I could think of was my Two Turtle (Doves), snack!
I took them inside and dipped them in water
They had no idea they where soon to be slaughter
My dad told me that turtle soup hits the right spot.
Silly turtles where already in the boiling pot
Looking at the pot one turtles was swimming around
I can't believe in the hot water he didn't even drown
I had to pull him out, and set him on the rebound.
I'll just cook him on my second round.
I am ready to eat my turtle stew.
Praising this soup with an mm mm thank you!
DARN!! Salt and Pepper was the main thing I forgot
Realizing napkins was the only thing I bought
I put the napkins on my lap.
I was about to have me some turtle snap.
I started singing my favorite Christmas song.
Suddenly the "Two Turtle Dove" part did not belong.
Singing softly to my favorite line
Eating the stew didn't feel fine.
""On The Second day of Christmas
MMMMMMMMMMMy TRUE LOVVVVEE
Gave to me TWO TURTLE DOVVVVEE
With out having the jolly to sing along.
I had to put the stew to a side and be strong.
(now) THAT WAS WRONG!!!!!
((( HAVING FUN WITH MY OWN TURTLE CONTEST )))
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
Hot Water Poem
I really wanted, a refreshing day
Thinking to myself, what was the best way
First some cold water, I splashed on my face
Evidence of sleep, vanished without a trace
I felt my pores shrink, my eyes came awake
Brrr I was so cold, I started to shake
Perhaps a warm shower, was the answer for me
I ran the hot water but needed to pee
Off to the toilet as the water ran hot
Not so refreshing, it burned quite alot
Jumping from the shower, I slipped and hit my head
Things had started out well, but I ended up dead
Before I knew it, I stood at Heaven's gate
Better to show up early than to get there too late
I was handed a mint, it seems I had bad breath
One of the side effects, of succumbing to death
Minty and refreshing, it gave me a glow
As the gates opened I went with the flow
I was quite curious, wondered what I'd see
There the tree of life, right in front of me
I walked towards it, reached up for some fruit
Soft music was playing, I think a Pan Flute
As I began to bite, a voice told me to stop
Being quite startled, I let the fruit drop
Saint Peter asked me, "How did you end up here?"
my knees started knocking, I was overcome with fear
Was I bound for Hell, I truly hoped not
I prefer refreshing and Hell is quite hot
Saint Peter was laughing, there had been a mistake
I wasn't bound for Hell, or a fiery lake
It seems I'd been taken, way before my years
I felt so refresed as I shed thankful tears
My body was gone, I needed one new
He promised me one, with no teeth to chew
So down through the clouds, placed into a womb
So warm and cozy, not cold like a tomb
All of my memories, firmly in tact
Until my birthday, when I felt a smack
All thoughts and memory, vanish without a trace
Refreshing new love, found in my mother's face
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014
Hot Water Poem
Based on BBC news article "Maths zeroes in on perfect cup of coffee"
Two billion cups a day we drink
To stay awake so we can think
Tireless workers - every nation
Need a caffeine drink equation
Lattes, mochas, cappuccinos
Our calculator super heroes
Measured, reasoned, wrote a theorem
Clockwork system - mighty fearsome
Divide the beans and add hot water
Multiplies the bean aroma
Takes away the taste chaotic
Get this right - it's sums and logic
China cups the theory goes
Helps the smell go up you nose
Cardboard mug with plastic roof
Not as good, but where's the proof?
But their reason's most disjoint
Like whole numbers - has no point
You just need a rule of thumb
QED for us dumb-dumbs
(Entry for "wake up with coffee or tea" contest - shortened to meet rules)
Copyright © Mark Martin | Year Posted 2016
Hot Water Poem
I should say outrage!
My favorite T.V. show
Blacked-out just like (snap!) that
Wind was like a hurricane
Scared hell out of the cat
Whole trees blown over
My house dark as Asa’s tomb
I’m feeling my way
Stumbling on familiar things
Cursing the maddening gloom
Think of olden days
Young Abe reading by hearth side
Chuck sails by moonlight
Hot water heated on the stove
Long before Ben Franklin’s kite
What a hardy brood
Those ancient folk must have been
We should be ashamed
Millionaires playing sports games
Time to offer thanks
How lucky we are oh Lord
Thank you Lord power restored
Maybe they’ll have a rerun
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2011
Hot Water Poem
Listen to poem:
by Robert ( Bob) Moore © 2015
When I was a kid with a dirty neck
my mam would scream “wash it”, I’d run like ‘eck
grow spuds in your ears, she’d yell at me
I didn’t care, I couldn’t see
I’d go as long as I could, thinking nothing was wrong
Till somebody said, boy, you sure do pong
then out with the bathtub, hot water and soap
scrub till your raw, with a sponge felt like rope
Then off to bed, all clean and sleek
won’t need another, least not for a week
then it will start, all over again
Having a bath, it was such a pain
Copyright © Bob Moore | Year Posted 2016
Hot Water Poem
Although the kiss was brief
The sensation seem to linger,
His eyes still closed when he felt a pain
As she ran the razor sharp nail of her finger
His eyes popped open as he looked at his chest
She hushed him and stroked his hair while whispering “rest”
He found that he was laying on the floor
Surrounded by snow, his chest was bloody and gore
“What you doing?” he begged
“Hush I said.”
“All will be revealed in time,”
“Rest you’re now mine.”
He panicked and tried desperately to move
But could not, as if his body had been removed
She sat next to him as her tail caressed his face
The scent of a woman was pleasurable, her tail like a silky lace
She spoke “ Do you remember long time ago,”
“The beginning of your people’s sorrow?”
“Yes,” he replied
The reality of his situation dawned on him as he deeply sighed
“The sacrifice should have been from the chief’s fruits not a bearer,”
“Yes,” he replied, “A male child not female that’s what brought our terror.”
“What Happened to Little Irit?” she asked
He hesitated for a while, “She was taken by Coyote,” he said at last
“Probably eaten, how should I know.”
She whispered “That was not so.”
“I am Irit the sacrifice, not little anymore,” “They now call me Irma.”
Child of Coyote, Goddess of Devolma”
“Although you killed my father, his spirit lives in me”
She straddled him, sat on his belly leaned forward and said “Look in to my eyes and
see the fate I have for thee”
Her eyes were pools of fire
As he saw his fate, the terror made him scream out and perspire
Her fingernails slowly pushed under his chest deep inside
Slowly tearing the skin open wide
He screamed but his body did not move
He passed out, she stopped and waited until he was fully alert before continuing the
“Medicine man where is the one that should have been given in my place?”
“Show haste and I might spare the rest of you and your face.”
The pain was to much to bare and thought he would die at that moment in time
But her words echoed in his pain “YOU ARE MINE”
“His in hiding in the great towns,” he screamed
The exposed muscles to the air was like no other pain but she had hot water on the
fire which steamed
“Hush, this is only the beginning for you medicine man she whispered….
To be continued….
Copyright © Sidney Hall Mad Poet | Year Posted 2011
Hot Water Poem
A hot cup of tea greeting me—
first thing in the morning,
wife smiling unconditionally, xo!
hot water on tap, tsh…
neighbour’s doggy popping in to play,
adding to the warmth,
a nice, steaming breakfast,
finishing the punch line of a poem—for a contest
colleagues in the department patting me on my new shirt,
boss on the phone, “good work, so and so!”
overhearing students chattering merrily—about my latest lecture
a brisk round of tick-tock table tennis,
back home for a sumptuous dinner
and chat with the family, “haha, cacka…packa.. he he”
dozing off while reading a book—zzz...
all these things do happen to me or anyone —
but not on the same day!
Actually, there may be water on tap—not hot
Or while petting, the neighbour’s puppy
pisses on your new shirt…etc!
It is after all my notion of a perfect day—a daydream!
Winner, Poetry Contest sponsored by Madison Demetros, December 5, 2017.
Copyright © Ram R. V. | Year Posted 2017
Hot Water Poem
Judgement People and Haters Rhyme
Hate me cuz, M I ain't great;
Hate me when I'm a minute late;
But your here not working, standing here straight;
Judging me people judgmental;
Ya can't even boil hot water yourself in a burning kettle;
Juz as a Hippocrates
Judgmental false profit;
No regrets, yet, I still wish you be blessed;
Ya hate me cuz I waz born;
Hate me before and evermore;
I ain't Juz like ya Boy;
Judgmental people and haters;
Three thousands years same ole debating;
the only rights is all your wrongs;
Ya kill time one time, but time gon kill ya;
Hope your holding on to do ba;
Nothin left but a silents Hallelujah;
Facilitate your witness cuz ya ain't nothin;
Stop all this judgmental hatred and cussin;
I've got a job ya hateN;
Got couple children ya hateN, unmarried out their fornicating;
Got your nerve Ya judgmental people and haters hating;
Let him without sin cast the first stone;
Better git git it right before you git to heaven;
FOR CONTEST: Judgement People and Haters
Sponsored by: Brenda Cheri
Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017
Hot Water Poem
Most people got married in June because
They took their yearly bath in May
Body odor was the reason
Of the flowers in a bouquet
A big tub of hot water was used
For a bath, so that's not complex
The males's right was to go first
The women and children went next
Last of all was the babies turn
By then the water was real dark
"Don't throw the baby out with the wash"
Soon became a common remark
Dirt floors were all the poor could afford
The old saying "dirt poor" came from that
The wealthy's floors were slippery slate
In wet winter you just might fall flat!
So they would spread straw on the floor
But they called it thresh way back then
and a "Thresh Hold" was what they called
The piece of wood used to hold it in!
Stew in a big kettle over a fire
Provided their dinner for them to eat
Leftovers left to get cold at night
With vegetables but not much meat
They added to the pot every day
It could be several days I'm told
That was referred to in the old rhyme
"Peas porridge in the pot nine days old"
When they could "bring home the bacon"
They were always proud about that
They would cut a little off to share
Then sit around and "chew the fat"
Pewter plates would cause lead poison
If like, in tomatoes, the acid was high
So for the next four hundred years or so
They thought tomatoes would make you die!
Bread was split according to status.
The burnt bottom to workers was thrust
The family would get the middle part
While the guests got the "upper crust"
Sometimes they'd pass out a few days
Because with whiskey they'd use a lead cup
So they would be prepared for burial
But "hold a wake" to see if they woke up
England had to re-use their coffins
But there were scratch marks, on some inside
They thought about it and soon realized
They must have been burying people alive!
Then they were buried with a string on their wrist
A bell was attached outside as well
Someone sat on "the graveyard shift" so
a "dead ringer" could be "saved by the bell"
This is true history, you can look it up
For me history always gave me a fit
But now this history doesn't seem so boring
Since I managed to make a poem out of it!
Copyright © PAT Adams | Year Posted 2017
Hot Water Poem
I died again today! Now, I display
The heart that was broken by my dismay.
In between the moments, in which I cried,
All I could do was try, therefore I tried
"Be Like Christ," but how can I talk the talk
With no hot water, upon which to walk.
I guess vengeance is a dish best served cold,
But these tribulations are getting old.
But, bold displays of penance must be seen,
So, sorry for looking at her tight jeans.
This witness, whose testimony you loathe,
Used dish washing liquid to clean his clothes,
And, yes, I had to suffer in my youth,
So I could expose the world to my truth.
Copyright © dakarai cobb | Year Posted 2012
Hot Water Poem
I lay in the bath, scented candles gently waft
tantalising and teasing as the hot water brushes
my skin setting it tingling. I stir my legs and
hands creating rippling waves that set me afire.
I see you approaching through the billowy steam
and hold out my arms in welcome. You tease as
slowly you strip naked giving an odd tantalising
wiggle then lean over and kiss me passionately.
You slide into the bath with me water lapping
over the edge. Our limbs tangle as our lips
meet in hot lingering kisses and we slowly
sink under the surface entwined together.
Gasping I come up and stare around baffled
realising I am on my own, that I had slid under.
Slowly, sadly I realise it was only a dream, a
beautiful moment suspended in another time.
The veils had parted allowing us to love briefly
once more until we are, at last reunited by death.
contest Hotsy totsy
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
Hot Water Poem
When I took my shower this morning
I pretended that you were there
I imagined your hands holding the soap
As you lathered me everywhere
Hot water splashed upon me
Steam rose up in the air
You explored all of my body parts
With enticingly gentle care
My hands played your role
But you were present in my mind
I just ignored those childhood warnings
That this activity will make me blind
My knees started trembling
As to a climax you made me climb
Dreams in the day while you are wide awake
I think are the most vivid kind
When I turned off the water
I just stood there for a while
I saw my reflection in the steamed up mirror
Looking a bit beguiled
I imagined you standing beside me
Wearing nothing but a similar smile
Then taking one last cleansing breath
I reached for a fresh, clean towel
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
Hot Water Poem
HOG KILLING TIME
There's a chill in the air
And holidays are near,
Thanksgiving's just 'round the bend;
There's a feeling amongst country folks
That's absolute prime,
Everyone senses it's hog killing time.
Oh what a spectacle!
Oh what a show!
You'll find nothing like it,
If you look high and low.
From sunup to sundown,
It lasts the whole day;
And once it gets started,
Horses couldn't pull you away.
Everyone has his own part to do,
With all the commotion,
It feels like a zoo.
The poor victim for this occasion
Has long been picked out,
And soon will become food,
From his tail to his snout.
There's a shot and a squeal
And he's out for the count;
A cut of the throat,
And blood spews like a fount.
In a barrel of hot water,
He's cleaned and de-haired;
Amongst all the men,
This giant task is shared.
A skillful knife separates all parts of meat,
Including pig ears, pig tail, land pig feet.
The women's task is always chittlin's to make.
There's a boatload of goo and muck
They must rake.
When night time falls,
All surround the black pot;
Where the oil is bubbling,
And boy is it hot!
Pieces of skin are stirred with a surge,
And after some time,
Crisp cracklings emerge.
Sweet potatoes are roasted,
Right in the fire;
And of these simple treats,
No one ever does tire.
When it's all finally over ,
And the day is all done;
The grown-ups are weary,
But the kids just had fun.
Copyright 2008 Patricia Neely-Dorsey
from Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia
#southern #southernlife #southernfood #southernculture #southernfoodpoems #countrylife
Copyright © Patricia Neely-Dorsey | Year Posted 2013
Hot Water Poem
An incontinent man from Thottle
Slept with his hot water bottle
It burst in the night
His wife got a fright
She said next time do use your pottle
Quotation used:- Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, and half-shut afterwards. Benjamin Franklin
Contest: Dumb and Dumber Quotes - Sponsor John Freeman
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
Hot Water Poem
February winds pound the siding scattering sand left by the snow plows through the gray angry air. The house seems full of small noises and little else. The cat has taken up his guard post in his rug-covered tree house and purrs in tune with the ping of the hot water pipes. Even the dust has settled.
surround a guestless table:
I stand cup in hand
Scanning the tidy kitchen with its Wedgewood-blue counters and rustic farm-scene border, I note, the cabinets need a good rubdown. Murphy’s Oil in hand I approach the oak with determination, and a soft pink flannel rag. The scent of lemon oil, crisp and clean, wafts past my nose. With great care, I climb a gingerbread chair to reach the highest cabinets over the stove. I balance, praying the seat cushion doesn’t slide out from under my feet. Opening the double doors, I view a stockpile of holiday décor, now unused. There below the paper Easter Eggs, I see them and a tear comes to my eye. Empty now, decades old, of all different sizes, red satin boxes, Valentine Hearts, forgotten.
floats past my eyes:
the clock bongs once
First Published in haibun Today Fall 2013
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
Hot Water Poem
I live in America, as in the United States of America, and that used to mean something. At least to me it did. And it’s not so much in how I was raised but in how I was couched by my country. While I was never one to really fall into the “mom, apple pie, hot dog and baseball” America ideal, I did believe in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where all men are equal and rights for all men. And I still do believe that ideal. Yet this country of mine keeps despairing me as I continually see a degradation of those ideals over the last fifty years. And I have this following theory.
We are a melting pot of all societies and prided ourselves on accepting everyone. But take a look at that for a minute. Look at Europe and Africa and their history for a minute, I did. Throughout recorded history Europe and Africa kept all religious and racial differences segregated in their different countries, or areas, and fought each other over ideological differences and over the generations a deep-seated, in-bred hatred developed for each other developed. Wars were begun for the simple act of mingling with other races or religions. This is fact, look it up. Now flash-forward to the new country, America, with its open borders accepting the oppressed, where all flocked to start a new life. Now you’ve got a huge influx of natural enemies flooding a nation and now they are supposed to just drop their in-bred prejudices? Play nice after centuries of discord? But for the Civil War, I’m surprised we haven’t erupted into total anarchy. But the whole point of this is that these people want to come here and keep their culture, their identity. I see no fault in that and don’t blame them, but that brings me right back to my original question, where, or more fundamentally, what, is it to be American?
I believe the original creators of the Declaration of Independence were visionaries. It bothers me at times to see various Facebook posts and other mentions of such things saying they were racist, or this, or that. I do believe there was a lot of that in many of the implementers of the document, but not really in the actual architects. Why do I believe that? Mostly for this statement: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. And the 11th Article of the Bill of Rights confirms the Declaration thusly: “The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people”. Yet in this country, just like in the mother countries of Europe and Africa, we suffered from racism and bigotry. I believe this goes back to my theory of the melting pot of people who came to America. They couldn’t overcome their bigotry or racism or hatred just because they came over here, although some really tried. Yet I believe the architects of the Declaration were far-sighted enough to not try to create some sort of Utopia either, but rather a working, self-sustaining country that was governed by the people, for the people. The biggest problem as I see it was that it got too big … that’s not totally true. The biggest problem as I see it is politics and the “American Way”.
When is the last time you heard a politician run a campaign and only talked of the issues that concerned the people? I only see and hear them talk of negative things of their opponents. Why would I vote for anyone who tries to smear their opponent? How is that helping me or my neighbor? How is that serving the public good? How is that engendering trust? It’s not, in my opinion. And the “American Way”? Americans are far too smug, too fat and happy. There’s very little strife so we take way too many things for granted. Don’t believe me? This may seems simplistic and a little childish, but take your household chores for example. We live in a country where you can wash your dishes in hot water, can even use an automatic dishwasher, can even wash your clothes in an automatic washing machine and electric dryer. We have so many modern, electronic conveniences that it’s actually making us dumber. Don’t believe me? How many of you have lamented the young cashier at the convenience store who cannot make change unless the cash register tells them how much to give back? Basic skills are being eroded because of the useless conveniences we keep making in the never ending quest to make our American lives easier. It’s disheartening, really. Maybe it’s just me and progress really isn’t that bad, but I see proof everyday of the dumbing of America, and if you’re of a certain age I believe you see it, too.
So I see this huge country I live in, called America, filled with so many diverse people living in … harmony? I don’t know, I still see racial problems and still can’t figure out why. I have a very simple philosophy on life: while we’re not entitled to material things, every person is entitled life and respect to be who they are, so long as they do not intend to hurt others. And, for the most part, I’m happy enough and I am oh, so grateful that I live here, in America. I can say what I want, I can worship who I want – if I want – and I can aspire to become what I want, if I’m willing to work hard enough. And you can disagree with me, if you want. We have that freedom. Because we are living in America, and we are free. For now.
But I do worry about the future America and what it may devolve into.
Copyright © Anthony Amero | Year Posted 2016
Hot Water Poem
I was born in 1943
in a rural backwater safe from the bombs
also a safety net still akin to the 19th century.
Neither electricity nor gas
only an old oil lamp and candles for comfort.
The luxury of the tin bath once a week
brought in from the scullery, placed in front
of the cast iron Yorkist fire range
with hob and side boiler, to source the hot water
poured into the bath at regular intervals
to help keep out the cold.
Old overcoats and hessian sacks placed across
the bottom of the doorways, to aid keeps out the icy drafts,
also aid as foot warmers once upon the beds.
A copper boiler for the weekly wash
a fire beneath to be lit, a combination of paper
sticks of kindling all pre chopped
as were the logs to maintain the heat
of the dark stained grey coloured water,
stirred by the posser, to aid mixture
of the home made soap, and the garments.
Slop bucket (The posh name for it)
to be emptied every morning,
carried down the lane to the tippler convenience
care not to spill on the seat or trouble with the neighbours.
Wet batteries for the wireless
to be carried once a week from the local store,
replacements for the empty ones
a choice of 2 stations
BBC and BBC.
Early nights, early mornings the darkness prevailing
throughout the long winter months,
only for the daylight to never end
in the month of June, impeding one’s sleep
even then we were never satisfied with our lot in life.
Only my father laying in a military hospital
a casualty of war, was missing the value of it all
after all he was fighting for it
his life style, his freedom our freedom
to enable me to write this, ever so simple story!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013
Hot Water Poem
There was a pretty girl called Charlene
Who showered all day to stay clean
The hot water ran out
She gave a loud shout
And started swearing like a marine
Copyright © Shane Cooper | Year Posted 2015
Hot Water Poem
hot water bottle
just a temporary cure
until his return
*wishful thinking on my part*
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2011
Hot Water Poem
Time for tea
Opening the tea box
Fingers sink into the peach flavor
The light on the electric kettle flickers
Pouring the hot water in a crystal cup
The tea bag ready to dive
Time to infuse the aroma
Waiting for the tea to brew
The cup is taken
Blissful unity to be sipped
The drip into the mouth
Awakens the senses
Back to another day of finances
Copyright © Bhavna khemlani | Year Posted 2013
Hot Water Poem
She’s out there chasing a cricket
Through bush, through shrub & through thicket
Together they hop
But when she gets it, she just wants to lick it!
A cat whose vet took his eye
Just cannot quite understand why
His eye’s been enucleated,
3-D vision reduciated,
So now, he keeps an eye out for an eye
Ya gotta keep limericks loose
Think green eggs, or perhaps Dr. Seuss
They’re structured, it’s true,
But they’re also a zoo
Whose tenants are all on the loose!
I frolic in fountains of words
Overflowing with serious absurds
Each poem I write
Wakes up and takes flight
Joining angels and faeries and birds
You ask that we write a good limerick
How to do so, I haven’t a glimmerick
So I struggle and frown
Teaching poems to clown
So a smile on your lips will be shimmerick
A cat with a mouth full of mouse
Brought her feast right into my house
She played with her food
Who was not in the mood
To be a banquet of mouse in the house
The nightmares that shadow my sleep
Stampede the proverbial sheep
Right out of my mind
When I try to unwind
I find my appointment with sleep hard to keep
In her search for original truth
She met people unsavory and couth
She knitted and purled
But only unfurled
Yarns told by new age and old youth
Cat, suddenly pink,
Drinks her water from out of the sink
She looks so absurd
Since she’s been de-furred
I really don’t know what to think!
If one and one is two and two is four,
And there’s only two ways to go through a door,
Then, is earth up or down?
And, where is down town?
These are questions we need to explore!
A was that is an is
Tried to mind my biz
But I sent it packing,
Its presence was lacking
And I don’t have time for such shiz!
A couple who lived in Los Lunas
Loved the wide desert sky’s crystal blueness
They’d stare at the air,
Over here, over there
And rejoice at the feeling of newness
A cat with a very fat gut
Found it easier to walk on his butt
He’d drag it around
Across carpet and ground
And use it to slam the doors shut
Said the Missus to her dear Mr. Otter,
“There’s something I think that you oughta
Do before we get old
To protect us from cold –
You oughta make the hot water hotter!”
The ghosts who live up in my attic
Make noises that sound much like static
I’ve tried to send them away,
But they’re here to stay,
Those staticky ghosts in my attic
Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson | Year Posted 2007
Hot Water Poem
My faucets run cold, what IS this about?
My hot-water-heater-tank pilot light's out!
Press down that red button and click 'til I pout
Then spew out a string (my religion in doubt)
My stove-top still lights, I can still take a bath!
Boil three piping pots full (I HOPE that will pass)
Teeter and totter like I'm walkin' through glass----
The stopper ain't stoppin', you STUPID dumb-ass!!
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2013
Hot Water Poem
Welcome To My Home
I've been blinded by your sentiment,
and awoken by your sweet cologne,
like our sweet morning regiment,
we don't live in a house, but a home.
I see my pugs silly smushy face,
as soon as I open my exhausted eyes,
all night he sleeps in the same place,
on my feet, but I'm not surprised.
I'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth,
I open the door and there he is,
my sweet golden retriever beast,
So darn sweet, how can I resist?
“Time to get up Ella and get dressed!”,
It's Monday, you know how that goes,
As I see her smile I know I am blessed,
Love her from her head to her tiny toes.
Pancakes and orange juice for breakfast,
packing a lunch for my sweet Ella Rose,
These special moments can't be purchased,
Oh, how her beautiful brown hair flows.
Back from school and it's Laura time,
I kick back, relax, and do a little writing,
I'm lucky to have a chance to unwind,
My over sized lounge chair, typewriting.
Laundry piled up I suppose I throw in a load,
mmmmmmm..my favorite fabric softener,
Hot water is off my washer is cold,
But I think it makes the clothes softer.
Eat lunch? Or my favorite apple strudel?
I'll go with the unhealthy snack instead,
Plus I just looked and I'm all out of noodles,
and I have no more of my raspberry vinaigrette.
Uh oh, I forgot to feed the turtle and bunny,
my precious white fluffy piece of heaven,
His name is Lucky and he is very funny,
Pebbles the turtle just turned seven.
I set my phone alarm to go off at four o'clock,
I still can't decide what's my favorite ring tone,
I go to the bus stop right around the block,
It's cold, I would've brought a coat if I had known.
“Hi sweetheart, how was your day at work?
He's finally home, I've missed him so much.
Next it's time to sit down and do homework,
Dinner's ready, we are all starving, I figured as such.
Look inside our windows you will see it yourself,
With our little family of seven we're never alone,
We may not have a lot of monetary wealth,
But we've learned to turn a house into a home.
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: January 29, 2016
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016