Best Toiletries Poems
To my Moonbeam leaping stag,
box of miscellaneous keys two
little shelves your favorite chicken
salad with pot of Lady Grey tea.
Royal jelly honey-based receipe
all natural retorative toiletries.
Splendid Summer afternoon
strolling and chatting in the deep
wicker chair at the old country house.
Valley of the kings
Romantic ideas
Word spread rapidly
Undiscovered tomb of a pharoah
World renown archeological teams
headed for Egypt
Amateurs, we stood in line for almost twenty-hours
before it was our
turn to take a look inside.
From the sunlight to the darkness, at first you go blind.
You hopefully catch yourself
As you find yourself falling over all of the stuff the servants
Felt the Pharoah would need in the afterlife
Toys, tools, everyday items, seeds, toiletries, decorative items
Vast amounts of lapis, and gold are glimpsed at corners where
generators are lighting lamps.
The air is stale, like a death march.
There is little light; but lots of angry shadows.
I lost my footing twice, tripping over an embossed box.
There were three sarcophagus,
In this unusual tomb.
A family disaster perhaps?
I could barely see in here.
I went back out,
and gulp-breathed
Gorgeous Egyptian air,
relieved I had not been grabbed
by a mummy.
The College Caravan
Last night we loaded the minivan with her
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chest of plastic drawers
stuffed with clothing, toiletries, school supplies, and posters.
While our vehicle is tightly packed, her room stands hollow;
drained of stuff and spirit, except for the furniture she left behind
like the last icicle melting unnoticed in the spring thaw.
Morning’s excitement, today’s foreseen guest, found her passkey
so early, she displaced the alarm clock, announcing her presence.
On the verge of adventure, our cramped van vacates the driveway,
eager to meet the other jammed vehicles joining our journey.
Sporadic chatter splinters moments of spurned monotony,
spanning the miles amassing in our rearview mirror until …
A hatchback hauling a heavy load leads our line exiting for the rest
stop, where the parking lot hosts vehicle after vehicle stuffed with
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chests of plastic drawers …
Our re-entry acceleration runs smoothly, courtesy of a
clamshell-covered car graciously slowing to permit our advance.
From sedans to SUV’s, the right lane is flush with fenders and
families, forming a cohesive chain whose links approach “The Exit”
signaling for the deceleration lane. The college caravan, flowing
onto the exit ramp and through the green light, turns and winds
along Main Street. As the minivans, hatchbacks, clamshell-covered
cars, and SUV’s pour onto college campus USA, they’re carrying
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, chests of plastic drawers,
and, of course, the proud, nervous parents …
escorting the Freshman Class of 2018!
E. V. Wyler
The ghats,grey serpents in green thickets
cool and moist, dampens restless midgets
There ,in a hotel ,in the lushness of the tropic's crown
are trees mighty tall with neat flights of stairs hanging down.
stood perched on trees, a cabin each of uneven logs
with wooden planks hand-polished to parqueted floors
A large cypress cot,an inviting bed ,the sensuous Umrao-Jaan
on canvas overhead, glowing in hues from a crystal pan
white porcelain figures, lovers dancing on mantle;love lounges,
windows open to wild flora , a few ripe mangoes hanging in bunches
On the rails ruddy jasmine vines flaunt little white stars
antique bamboo lanterns at the door , happy to be ajar
warm aroma from oils of wild-herb toiletries exude
wanting a trickle on the heated hearts' pursuit
cute candles whispers roses and jasmine in the air
nothing more, the imp of the mind feasts on love in the air.
on the small balcony , the cool breeze of the underwoods caress
In this tree-house,bask in nature...at its best to soothe five senses.
To nourish breaths and twirl away
when island counts beachcomber years
folder and pen will imprint scripts
of journey’s tales sucked from my womb
with drawings and poems handwritten.
For private care, need I bring toiletries?
oh , Mother Earth offers all herbal scents,
except for undies... that’s a load full;
just maybe, they’ll wrap me from the cold
or guise them as hats for summer’s fare.
Forget the playlist as necessity,
the music of waves, seagulls and leaves
is finer than orchestra or blues combined;
a serenade of night chirps will invite
the lull of twilight, the hop of morn.
In between survival and lush of days,
Rumi’s journal would embed new seedlings
opening chakras with tender wildness
for pauses while I lay on moon’s hammock,
enshrined in a banquet for body, mind and soul.
What Would You Take Contest, Shadow Hamilton
10.30.2013
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
Dedicated to My Blessing, Timothy Lee, with Endless Love
Loving me includes a two-for-one, challenging package
because I love and care for my grown, special-needs son.
He said his love’s sincerity held my son in its reality.
Loving him revealed my heart’s innate, soulmate measure,
and the tenderness two honed hearts can lovingly render.
Happiness surged and rose through my flesh, blood and bones.
Call me old-fashioned, but after decades spent in an office,
I embraced his wish that I handle hearth and let him provide.
Everything from bills to meals were my responsibility deal
that blended with his labors and lent smoothness to savor.
For many years our efforts combined in tension free designs
of two hearts and heads free of pressure’s grayish binds.
Then came a day when I disappeared for years inside our home.
Though present, my brain issues left him abandoned and alone
with the strife of obligations in life for me, himself and my son.
He took on everything from meals, bills, cleaning and toiletries
while tortured by concern and weighty fears he could not free.
How bleak it must have been,
wishing to fix,
never able to mend.
When my mind came back, I asked why he had not chosen to run,
pointed out we weren’t married, no obligation existed to bind him.
I stated his life had surely turned tough, with struggles of enough.
I was holding his hand and my teary eyes were attached to his
when he said, "for you, my heart grew a steadfast, loyal love and
leaving you, our life and son was something I never thought of.”
I am a bag
I was polished but now I sag
can't I be your next best friend?
though I'm not a soul that can mend
I carry your heavy load
still you don't care me for good
you put inside of me
anything you please
that sometimes I'm suffocated
and cannot breathe
from paper, clothes, and toiletries
why not bring your own house instead?
I have a favor to plead,
just once, listen to my heed
please bathe me in a soapy water
or dry cleaned to protect
my sensitive skin
then I'll be feeling fresh and new
ready to be of service, and on the go!
9.26.08
Early one morning my Hubby was sleepily shuffling around and about.
Dawn was almost breaking and we were becoming late no doubt.
Toiletries were a waiting, as he shuffled near the morning throne.
Opening the lid, you’ll never guess what exited as a rocket blown.
EEEWWW …Poor little thing… Oh Who, you will never guess…
Out popped a little tree frog jumping at mach 2 in his quest…
Yes, he was wet and doing his very best as he stuck to the vanity.
For who can say how long he’d been trapped in there, you see?
It puzzled me to wonder… How he’d got to the second floor?
Poor little guy… I doubt he could have withstood very much more.
Now here we were to scare him… Yes, another time, I confide…
We had to get him past 3 dogs awaiting for food and to go outside.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if 3 squirrels weren’t watching from the tree.
None might have been so eager, if they’d known he came from our potty.
My jammied hubby ran for the mulch pile where sticks and leaves abound…
As I entertained the squirrels and doggies with tempting morsels all around.
Now I can’t say it was traumatic to save a little wayward froggy…
But I won’t be opening that lid without a light, especially, if I am groggy.
And I’ll move back out of range as I lift the lid… I thank you all the same.
And next time I won’t forget to clean the toilet in a timely way, to my shame.
And I won’t ask my hubby to wash his hands 10 times daily… come next May.
Now I know you may not believe me… but I'll take an oath on this… I say.
This place is tucked out of the way,
across river from the city,
most folks don’t even know it’s here,
and I suppose that’s a pity.
Maybe the truck-stop that it serves
is what drives some people away,
but their hash-browns are masterworks,
so I come here most Saturdays.
Attached nearby is a small lounge
with massage chairs and a big screen,
and nearby showers you pay for,
an odd spot, but they must stay clean.
Nearby is a convenience store,
it’s several times larger than most,
snacks, westerns, and toiletries are
a few of the things that it boasts.
But the diner is why I come,
can’t drive a truck to save my hide,
I find it a relaxing place,
no hint of pretension inside.
A third of the clientele are
just hungry locals like me,
the others are the long-haul guys,
slumping wearily in their seats.
They’re literally the lifeblood
of a nation awash in goods,
yet so many look down on them,
I don’t understand why they would.
The elites who like their gadgets
seem to think them a lower class,
tet were there not men out driving
they’d run out of gadgets real fast.
I even heard a professor
use them as a cautionary tale,
but those guys have traveled further
than any professor who rails.
Once my very own uncle said
that they’re working class, and thus poor,
but some pull down sixty thousand,
my uncle can’t make that, I’m sure.
I was born to that ‘elite’ class,
the son of bureaucrats, lawyers,
raised to believe that a man should
go make a living by his words.
And yet I feel comfortable here,
I guess they’d say I’ve fallen far,
but we could live without lawyers,
without these men here, we would starve.
Some call suck folk ‘deplorables,’
but why is it a hated thing
to do the jobs someone must do
if people are to keep existing?
When I was a kid I heard this term
My simple young mind was aghast
How could there be a tree for such things
My mind was confused unsurpassed
Pictured this scene of a big old oak tree
With a seat carved into it's bark
The seat had a hole the size of a bum
Where a man for relief would park
The meaning was finally explained to me
Toiletries were sweet smelling lotions
To make us tough guys smell oh so purdy
This concept I sure had no notion
Now when I go out I douse myself
With that powerful smelling cosmetic
Dressed in my spiffy new velvet attire
Enhanced by my charms so magnetic
When I was a kid I heard this term
My simple young mind was aghast
© Jack Ellison 2013
At the end of every service each Sunday afternoon,
While walking out the back doors many sing a special tune,
Tables are set up with food and toiletries on top,
It becomes like a free food store or a gift shop,
Some Sundays there is bread, cakes and different brands of cereal,
Other times there are candles, clothes and cosmetic material,
Whatever the blessing, it is open to anyone from the congregation,
This is just an extra, not the church’s obligation
Now some people who attend are very poor, while others just have hard weeks,
Even if you’re wealthy you’re more than welcome to take a peek.
One Sunday there were boxes of sweet scented candles
I watched as a woman took more than she could handle
I offered to help her bring the boxes to her car
I knew that she had parked very far
When I got to her trunk what I did see, were ten boxes, each holding about twenty!
At first I laughed and found it kind of funny
“You must enjoy lighting candles" I said, she said "no it’s all for money"
My eyes opened wide and I asked her to clarify,
She proceeded to tell me everything she gets free, she puts on the internet for others to buy,
Now I ask you is she a genius or a criminal?
Is this something that should be viewed as minimal?
This is like Robin Hood stealing from the poor to make himself rich,
I don’t think that I am wrong for seeing a serious glitch,
The stuff that’s supplied is to help people that are struggling,
Yet this lady thinks its ok that she is smuggling,
That was the last box I ever offered to carry,
I hope that these act's of hers will somehow tarry.
By: Sabina Nicole
Contest:
Genius or criminal " True Story"
Staying at a Marriott,
You know just what you'll get.
In terms of cleanliness and style,
You have no need to fret.
The same applies to other chains -
It's comforting to find
The room decor and toiletries
Are what you had in mind.
But when you book a local inn,
It's always a surprise.
Descriptions of your room might clash
With what's before your eyes.
It may be better, may be worse,
But one thing is for sure;
It won't resemble any room
You've ever had before.
So play it safe or take a chance
But either way, relax;
When you're away, enjoyment should
Be amped up to the max.
My vacation prep consists
Of checking items off my lists.
Toiletries and extra socks?
One more pair of shoes, sans box.
Make-up? Check! A book to read?
More clothing than I really need.
An umbrella? Meds and snacks?
Passport? Chargers? (Can’t relax!)
Bills paid up and cards all sent?
Nothing left to thus lament.
Pencil and my writing pad?
The checking off is ironclad.
As the time to leave draws near,
One by one they disappear.
When I’m headed out the door,
My lists aren't needed anymore.