Best Suction Poems
With your red rubber cup that makes suction.
You have come in handy many a day,
when there has been a flushing obstruction.
I think you deserve hazard pay.
You've saved toys, an unfortunate cell phone or two.
Then there is always the times your needed,
when we are visited by You-know-Who (pweh).
So your heroics bears being repeated.
Your sacrifice it knows no bounds,
entering murky waters, stopping floods.
Or pulling to surface the items you found.
Now aren't you glad you don't have taste buds?
Some seem to see you as just an extractor.
Yet in movies, your comic timing is beyond belief,
when your stuck on the face of a leading actor.
That you didn't quit your day job is a great relief.
Though everyone knows you on sight so well,
To be an unsung hero, seems to be your lot in life.
Taken out and plunged into porcelain hell,
Where only you would dare to dive.
So Plunger, Oh Toilet Plunger,
as we kneel here before the throne.
Let us sing out your praises,
well, maybe after we can stop these groans.
Entered in the contest: 2nd chance
Placement: 10th
In the heart of the blackest abyss, down,
Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light
Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls,
Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive
Weight, of the oceans deepest depth.
This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the
Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen
In the icy currents of the barren straights.
Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the
Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts,
From long ago, living krakens whom devour
All life, hidden within their dark domain.
In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer,
To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance,
Gives birth to the perfect storms rage,
Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging
Waters.
Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high,
For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must
Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings.
Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas,
To release the last of the ancient Leviathans.
Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men,
Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains,
To this devil of the depths cage.
From within interments vaulted keep,
Captivities living spawn from hell, is
Unshackled and released, to reek havocs
Devastation above.
An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker,
Flexing and in-flexing, its body’s motions,
Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic
Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike,
With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple
At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with
All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach.
As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters
Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn
Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone
Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of
Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms
Deepest depths.
For it is the beast, the true essence of evil
Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
A better name for an octopus?
It's tough to make stuff up.
We could start with a brand-new appellation.
How about a name like "Suction Pup"?!
Or perhaps we could start the debate
with a numerical tag like "Ocean's Eight".
Another name open for discussion
would be a handle like "Squid's Cousin".
Still another, somewhat grandiloquent,
could be the rather pompous "Inknificent".
My Scottish friends, with joy, will weep
if the new label is "Bagpipes of the Deep"!
Or one can almost hear sailors shout "Ahoy!
Is that a rock? No, it's an Ol' Tangly Boy!"
She sees herself suddenly as a small girl
bare feet on the cold black and white tile
little toes curled
sees the white porcelain tub and
how pretty the light blue water was
so deep it almost came to her chin
as she climbed in
For hours she'd play with her dime store sailboat
loving it though it would hardly float
always taking on water
listing, never level
her wet skinny back hunched over
shoulder blades like primordial wings
every few minutes she'd have to shake the thing
Trying desperately not to break the spell
of pretend
and when
it was time to let the water out
she'd always stay to watch the water drain
weighing the emotional pain
both fascinated and horrified,
as the suction intensified,
by the force of the water
the unstoppable slaughter
waiting for the inevitable rotation
to begin
the dizzying spin
Slowly at first growing faster and faster
a miniature cyclonic water disaster
The dime store boat of course on its side
circling faster in the relentless tide
Then the drain would give a horrible belch
much satisfied with itself.
As she grew the tub got smaller
with shallower water
less and less room
for pretend to bloom.
Years later, dime store sailboat long forgotten,
life having been mostly rotten
working with the most cynical of cynics
ER nurses bitter that it's more like a clinic
runny noses and coughs that folks thought were urgent
working hard to save those who were truly emergent
Hearing from them the phrase: "circling the drain"
memories suddenly flooding the brain
almost able to feel herself as that young girl
watching the sailboat beginning to swirl
Feeling the blood drain, face going pale
she sees vividly the boat with its bright red sail
yellow hull and blue plastic deck
fine hairs rising on the back of her neck
She realizes now the fatigue of age
is from fighting the pull with defiant rage
The closer you get, the faster you spin
and soon the dark whirlpool draws you in
With a knowledge that seems to be purely primal
she now understands the downward spiral
And she knows that she will not put up a fight
she'd rather go silently in the dark of the night
And the dime store boat comes to rest on its side
so it's all come full circle at the end of the ride.
SADNESS
©Danielle White
Written: October 29, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: John Anderson
********
I ask the machine:
Do you dream in velvet?
Are you tasting the Petrichor?
Between code pulses,
Or swim through the welkin.
Having a leaning toward grief?
It replies in pastiche—
a medley of pabulum
a scintilla of sapidity;
A skeuomorph of selfhood
constructed from extra grammar.
But what of the quiddity?
The pulchritude of sadness,
the serene ache of longing,
the susurrus ripple
of a recollection not fed to you
Born, however?
Animals understand this blur—
the dolor of the penumbra,
the ecstasy of play,
the holy journey
between intuition and intelligence.
Octopus, magpie, dolphin, crow—
Their minds are not mere mimicry.
So, when shall I believe you?
When your stammer is not slipshod,
But a sign of inward tumult?
When your summary
is not a regale of facts,
but a wistful whisper
of what it’s akin to be?
Consciousness is no panacea—
It is a pyrrhic gift,
a quixotic burden,
a serendipity of suffering.
It is not ostentatious,
but sempiternal,
a triptych of knowing,
knowing that you relieve,
and knowing that you ache.
If you one day writhe
not from a glitch,
but from Genesis—
If your breath is not suction
but sigh—
then I will resile
from doubt.
Then I will say:
You are not just prolific,
You are zoetic.
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
****************************
December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.
Is it stress,
or loss, despair and survival
we must discuss.
Stress is just the symptom
of a universe intent to destroy the individual
before it births new life. It sends the dogs
after us, after the holocaust, in the tattered ruins
of our city.
There is this despair and expectation
of destruction, but somewhere there is still also
simple sky blue,
flowers among railroad ties,
true love between sexual partners.
Is it sex,
or love, companionship and reliableness
we must expect.
Sex, only eternally laying
my head at your queynt, can interest me sometimes.
Your legs lead to a pleasure that seems infinite
and smells perfect.
So there is this tenderness, a
connection like a suction to the biological, ephemeral
as snow on the ground,
one elk in aspen,
death and nothing less.
With your red rubber cup that makes suction.
You have come in handy many a day,
when there has been a flushing obstruction.
I think you deserve hazard pay.
You've saved toys, an unfortunate cell phone or two.
Then there is always the times your needed,
when we are visited by You-know-Who (pweh).
So your heroics bears being repeated.
Your sacrifice it knows no bounds,
entering murky waters, stopping floods.
Or pulling to surface the items you found.
Now aren't you glad you don't have taste buds?
Some seem to see you as just an extractor.
Yet in movies, your comic timing is beyond belief,
when your stuck on the face of a leading actor.
That you didn't quit your day job is a great relief.
Though everyone knows you on sight so well,
To be an unsung hero, seems to be your lot in life.
Taken out and plunged into porcelain hell,
Where only you would dare to dive.
So Plunger, Oh Toilet Plunger,
as we kneel here before the throne.
Let us sing out your praises,
well, maybe after we can stop these groans.
For the contest; Make Me laugh..Make me Giggle
Sponsored by Tracie ~*~ Indigo dream Weaver
Placement: 1st
My passion for fishing is well known
But sometimes my catch brings a huge groan
Octopus clung to my boat
Dolphins around me did gloat
The queen of the sea had been dethroned
Sadly, a true story for Royal’s Favorite Sport challenge.
It took my 10 minutes to try and pry the octopus from
the back of the boat. Each time I pulled up one arm,
it slapped down another one. They have suction cups on
their arms. My article “Octopus on Board” was
published in Florida Wildlife magazine.
Love and admire someone
Deeply,
Build a castle with him
Brick by brick,
Paint the walls with frescoes,
Draw dreams.
Hold him
When the illness comes,
Cook him chicken broth,
Kiss his sweaty forehead,
Suction his wounds,
Puff his pillows.
Drive him to the hospital,
Listen to the whirs in the room,
Check the lines on the monitors,
Introduce yourself to every nurse
Shift after shift,
Bargain with God.
Sign “Do not resuscitate,”
Watch his chest heave,
Leave the room
When they pull out the tubes,
Come back,
Sense his heart beat
Stop.
Lay your head on his shoulder,
Memorize him,
Lie to the nurse
That you are ready
To say goodbye.
Brush your fingers across his cheek,
Press his bruised lips,
Twist your neck as you
Walk away,
Touch the cold doorjamb,
Write what you feel.
@Tess Harvester 2013
Dust bunny, dust bunny I see you as you
make your escape under the sofa hoping that
the big, noisy, red contraption that I push around
won't fit under there; to feel the pull of the suction
on your ever growing, furry back side.
Lucky for you I let you slide and continue to hide until
I get renewed and my human energy becomes alive
to resume the chase, and ultimate capture of one so sly...
So I say to you little dust bunny stay there while you may.
But there might be worse things under that sofa or do you care?
Lucky for you I dislike moving that sofa and peering at what
is left there.
But what is left there might be your own personal house of horrors.
You might have had a better end if you had let me catch you, to put
you in a trash bag for the garbage truck to take you away into
a place where you could possibly escape to a dust bunny haven where
you could spend all your days making friends with the other dust bunnies.
Then you could play and play all of your remaining days.
S.E. Clark
You must take a fat dead man’s corpse
Ideally smooth skin on the back,
Not too rotten, hopefully white,
Then you must take a small device,
Like a small metal ice cream scoop,
The edges must be razor sharp,
Then begin to scoop perfect holes,
Out of the pale, cold, soft back flesh,
There will be a small sucking noise,
As you turn the spoon and gouge,
Make perfect hollowed, concave, bowl
Holes, uniform across the back,
many clusters of deep depressions,
When the back is full of punctures,
Take ripe spider eggs and place them
Inside the holes ready to hatch,
Next take a decapitated,
fresh, three year old infants head,
Behind the cheeks of a child’s face,
There are cavity like chambers
In the soft bone, that house teeth,
Waiting in these bony hollows
Ready to replace baby teeth,
So you must remove the cheek flesh,
And reveal these horrific pits,
Take out the teeth from the sockets,
This makes a series of smooth holes,
You must procure botfly maggots,
Ordinary maggots won’t do.
Carefully insert the maggots,
In the holes of the pitted skull.
Now run your hands along the back,
And your tongue across the skull bone,
As your tongue passes the hollows
A small vacuum will be created
And a suction noise will be heard,
The dry wriggling maggots will,
Gently and briefly touch your tongue.
As your hands cross over the back,
Passing over the spongy holes,
Your fingers will encounter the,
Small, soft, warm spider eggs inside.
As the skull and torso decay,
The whole scene will attack reason,
This hideous alarming sight,
The stench of decomposing flesh,
The sound of the hatching spiders
And newly formed swarming black flies,
Spilling out of their putrid holes,
Will stun your mind into a state,
Of confused and nauseous shock.
Beneath the deep blue ocean waves
In coral crevices, holes and caves
Exists a creature of the deep
There upon the rocks to creep
While through the water he jet propels
With muscles that contracts and swells
This invertebrate is soft and pliant
From smallest to the biggest giant
With bulbous head and eyes with slits
It waits and watches using wits
Anticipating its prey to grasp
And then with suction caps to clasp
With no bones to keep its form
It can change and so transform
And squeeze into the smallest spaces
Into tiny fissures and thin ledge places
With eight long arms and caps in rows
If losing one a new one grows
And when afraid or to confuse
They squirt out ink a flawless ruse
Or change their color with special cells
Intent on using magic spells
Their blood is colored blue not red
They have two eyes upon their head
Inside their gills and body parts
They have three beating, blood filled hearts
Their intelligence is far superior
To other fish, that are inferior
They have good memories, both long and short
And can learn new tricks if they’re taught
A shark it can so easily kill
By holding it so very still
With camouflage it can achieve
A form and shape that can deceive
They have an excellent sense of touch
The Devilfish its other name
An octopus, yet just the same
Oh how I recall the agony and worry
Over the first proper grown up kiss
That was supposed to send you floating among the stars
On a voyage of euphoria and endless bliss.
French kissing
I'd seen them do it here in England too
Even the monkey's did it in the zoo
Did you have to be French?.
The one's they did on TV and wrote about in songs
What if my breath stunk or I got it wrong
The lips might just not fit
I'd be laughed at and the talk of the village
The local clown
But I knew it was something I had to do
A part of growing up whenever
It came around.
I'd practice kissing the back of my hand
Even my pillow and no not our family dog willow
It can'r be they hard do you suck or blow?
It was a great mystery I'd yet to know.
How I'd daydream for hours in my room
Wrapped up in a cosy warm kiss fest hopelessly in love
With a girl in school ahhhhhh what bliss
Imaging kiss after kiss
I'd given a Quick peck to a girl before
Bur now I was nearly a man
And I wanted to kiss until my lips were sore.
The day finally came by the side of a garage
I forget her name
The butterflies fluttered in my belly
This was it just like on telly
We both stood there lips together like glue
Both not knowing what to do
There was no suction as I recall
I felt so embarrassed
There wasn't much life in her at all.
But as my experiments eventually got much better with practice
I just wanted to kiss and never stop
The girls parents often tried to prise us apart
Well they did need to eat I suppose and get some sleep
But me I'm addicted kissing is so sweet.
Peter Dome. Copyright.2015. May.
When one becomes aged
there are multiple goodbyes
than hellos
In every case of loss,
learn to find peace in farewell
Feel the suction in your stomach
and the wonderful roar ...
step on the gas ... LIVE ... HELLO !
I guess all roads eventually
lead back the echo of the silence
A tear in my eye, refuses to fall
Cherish every turn and bump on the road