Best Puddling Poems
The nurse ordered her to push, push, push
in her best proper voice
and linen balled in red fists knotted
and sweat falls from red face knotted
while Billy, head first, tugged and yanked by nurse's proper hands,
emerges, gently laid upon the blood soaked sand
motionless in the sulfur haze, almost well-behaved
amongst the rifle clatter and bewildered screams -
get down! get down! get down!
while Billy breathes slowly, undisturbed,
his eyes closed with new mom
gently caressing matted, cark curls,
her fingers, no longer knotted, extended,
Billy's tiny hands and infant fingers
grip the plastic ribbing
around the rifle barrel smeared in stickiness that flows out
from below Billy and onto sand, puddling, his lips chapped and parted,
suckling as new mom exhausted weeps
in relief of two arms and two legs and everything okay
as she holds him, hurting for him,
everything that might happen,
everything that will happen,
and she drifts off to slumber,
mother and child peacefully spent
in soft pretty colors
and the soft murmur of the television as the sedan
with government plates at the curb
and a Marine in dress blues (Oh, God) stands plastic in the doorway
and uses his best proper voice (Oh God, not Billy, Oh God)
to regretfully tell her,
and uses surprised hands to catch her when her legs
regretfully cannot hold her
and she sobs on the floor like a mother who outlived her son,
exhausted as the day Billy was born.
Screw this war.
Breathe laden islands rise and fall
beneath the steam graced surface of clear water,
capped with rosettes, red-brown, silken, warm,
beaded with water running in rivers
down mountainsides of flesh, puddling,
in the darken depression of navel.
The water rises, about kneecaps
pristine and alabaster in hue.
Angular shoulders hug the far end of the tub.
A slender neck held aloft, crowned with auburn hair
and hazel eyes, changling orbs, of green and gold
an a oval face rivaling Modigliani’s Madonna.
A ruddy glow spreads across high cheekbones.
The rising water submerges all,
but porcelain neck and upturned face,
tendrils, tresses, coil, splay on still water.
Lids droop languidly, lips pout petulantly,
and still the water rises
buoying delicate arms, ending in fingers
...avidly playing.. upon
the pearl white key to desire.
A fountain of poems is rapidly flowing out the top of my head
Some of them are shaped like stars
Others are diamonds
There is Dracula holding a bunny!
Some of these poems are in color, others are black and white.
Polka Dotted!
I pick up a pen.
I can always use a polka dotted poem.
One of them slides under my nose.
Old Spice! Daddy!
I think of the Chevy he ordered with bucket seats!
Making us angry; who orders buckets for seats?
Eager poems are rushing down my shoulders, down my back
Puddling onto my dirty kitchen floor.
When was the last time Joe swept this place?
One is shaped like Adonis. I follow him out the door.
her brown skinned
body laying atop a
table top covered
by a white table
cloth but she is
naked yet dressed
as a buffet with
delights to eat
placed like plates
for to be self served
my finger tips imitate
chop sticks to take
the taste of her now
noodle hair with
seaweed eye brows
following further down
her cuisine figurine
fingering disoriented
flavors and spices
sipping the saki shot
puddling her bellybutton
pairing with her pear
hips where sit not fig
greens but the earthy
shiso leaves that by
uncovering these find
two slices of raw tuna
sashimi dripping blow
fish soup the deadly
delicacy i immediately
drink licking her bowl
clean liking her sticky
rice inner thighs i
find no longer fingers
but my tongue turning
over the table now
able to smell pickled
ginger and inhaling
the heat of
wasabi
it feels foolish
these rain prayers
deeply pondered
stranded in our shared heat
is there some unimaginable space
where prayers drift to?
free from time, reclusive
rain wishing
its pulsating pop that jumps up from pavement
a life force
puddling weeds from cracks
washing all, slick and sloppy
rain that settles a hot vacuum cooler
transfiguring gardens, a floral fanfare
rambunctious ramble
with carved trumpets of open orange lilies
in a retiring heat
we watch-wait for dark clouds in pinball collision
a meditation on living
for rain to bud the morrow, green
in a kettle drum beating
rain wails from the sky
the winter of discontent
puddling fury tears
Tears falling like a pouring rain,
So hard to watch her in so much pain.
Words that say nothing spoken aloud,
The clouds of darkness are all around.
Their love and trust now falling apart,
Deception is how all that will start.
Foundations shattered by so many lies,
On and on they go not ever knowing why .
So sad this once a wonderful life ,
Turned into emptiness for all their nights.
Her fears puddling all about her feet,
A reminder of the nights she will not sleep.
How it must hurt not able to believe ,
When you've learned how you've been deceived.
Always thinking that the love was so grand ,
That's all changed now because of one man.
If only there was something I could say ,
To make her forget this her worst of all days.
A heart that has so much love to share ,
Will find that someone , someday ,somewhere.
Tac
A gutted mirror invents a tangled human scheme
My back might be found crooked from the jabber,
A puddling curb tried throwing the twisted dream
None bound for the scope spawned by a blunder.
My back might be found crooked from the jabber
Singing in heaven embeds tune of moral goodwill,
None bound for the scope spawned by a blunder
After a few years, you'd be ditched with side-will.
Singing in heaven embeds tune of moral goodwill
Straying guilt whetting shock and clear dismay
After a few years, you'd be ditched with side-will
The ridiculous concept of a fantasy hiding way.
Straying guilt whetting shock and clear dismay
The abstraction of waning grace is a little hazy
The ridiculous concept of a fantasy hiding way,
Tons of metal swords shattered by bared facility.
The abstraction of waning grace is a little hazy
A puddling curb tried throwing the twisted dream
Tons of metal swords shattered by bared facility
A gutted mirror invents a tangled human scheme.
Written: May 07, 2022
Solitude, aloneness, quietude
Replenish the spirit
Calm the soul
Open mind's heart
Spilling light into darkness
A milky puddling across time
Gather the wildflowers
To your bosom
Join with kindred folk
Clasp hands
Listen to the echoes
What a mystery solitude
Peopled with so many voices
Swirling and eddying they
Reverberate and explode
Cracking open the quietude
Leaving each alone
In the midst of so much activity
KDK 2012, revised 2016
Breath laden islands rise and fall
beneath the steam-graced surface of clear water,
capped with rosettes, red-brown, silken, warm,
beaded with water running in rivulets
down hillsides of flesh, puddling,
in the dark oval navel of desire.
Water rises about kneecaps
pristine and alabaster in hue.
Angular shoulders hug the far end of the tub.
A slender neck is held aloft, crowned with auburn hair
and hazel eyes, changling orbs, of green and gold
in an oval face rivaling Modigliani’s Madonna.
A ruddy glow spreads across high cheekbones.
The rising water submerges all, but the mounds
and the porcelain neck with its upturned face, full,
full of moans as tendrils, curl and coil splay upon
the rocking water.
Lids droop languidly, lips pout petulantly,
as the water invades, buoying delicate arms,
lending slip to fingertips, fingerstips
...avidly playing.. upon
the pearl white key of desire.
Fifth floor walk-up, light is fading,
lamp is lit, the curtains stay pulled back;
loose-limbed and limber like a tiger
set to spring she's geared up for
the evening's entertainment.
Hungry eyes in mirrored windows watching,
palms sweaty and expectant.
She's on her mettle,
going through her game plan
with a slow and sensual grace,
puddling her garments
and purring like a cat,
her pulse is racing!
The flutter of her heartbeat
and the shortness of her breath
betray the depth of her excitement.
She draws the drapes,
the game is done, yet her vanity
still cries for validation.
It drips outside my window
drip, drop, drip, drop,
night rain in the middle of November
it has started, it won't stop.
It falls fast
then it falls slow,
puddling up slowly
into the ground it goes.
It is cool on the skin
always is, this time of year,
replenishing one of God's creations
something I hold near and dear.
Listening to the night rain
truly calms me down,
after a long day of being busy
dripping, dropping to the ground.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Nov.22/2015
I'm sitting here listening to the rain dripping outside my window.
from your lips the light drips
what you are trying to hide
is beginning to seep out
I can see it puddling
on the floor
the secrets of the damned
are hiding from the sun
eyes squeezed shut
try to hold them in
your shadow slips to the floor like a fist
deep shades dancing
with the days old whores
aggressive eyes, swinging hips
bright against the black abyss
The weak sunlight struggles through the smoke from surrounding factories
Puddling on the patched asphalt excuse of roadways
Oozing like grey blood from the gaping rusted gates
To circle the lost huddle of trees in their curb side fortress
Robbed of leaves by the careless cold grasp of winter
Their stark forms leaning like bones from a wound in the earth
Shrouds of grimy unread newsprint clinging to grimy feet
Cartons from fast food take-aways like discarded confetti
Litter the skeletal thorn bushes struggling for life between
And there, a bundle of fur and stench reveals
The unnoticed resting place of some unwanted pet.
Fifth floor walk-up, light is fading,
lamp is lit, the curtains stay pulled back;
loose-limbed and limber like a tiger
set to spring she's geared up for
the evening's entertainment.
Hungry eyes in mirrored windows watching,
palms sweaty and expectant.
She's on her mettle,
going through her game plan
with a slow and sensual grace,
puddling her garments
and purring like a cat,
her pulse is racing!
The flutter of her heartbeat
and the shortness of her breath
betray the depth of her excitement.
She draws the drapes,
the game is done, her vanity
still cries for validation.