Best Tweezers Poems
i am a possibility
of many possibilities
i am a ratio
an indecisive factor
in the rest of what this dimension has to offer
the world is a top
i spin it and predict the probability
that the end will equal the means
or perhaps surpass it
even if i never surpass this muck-up
these broken eardrums
and the inquisition of my empty head exclaiming empty words
and i don't even exist
especially to the solipsists, nihilists
and i no longer give a sh--
i am now officially some lazy apathetic prick
oh i could have been a possibility
but that possibility was so small
that you'd need a magnifying glass
and some tweezers
i am rust, oxified and tearing up
i am crust, the sh-- in the ring on the toilet
i am lust, but never just enough
i am bust
i am a loser without a leash and/or choke chain
Gold Dredging
Early morning first light
Camped on the rugged, mountainous terrain
Out of our warm sleeping bags and tent we crawl
To the smells of pine and clean fresh air of the mountain
Wood starts a sizzling, spitting, crackling campfire
For early morning hot coffee and a warm breakfast
I Dress in tee shirt and swim suit,
Hubby is in his wet suit
We walked down to the creek
Pull the dredge into the creek and get it started
When he hits bedrock where gold might be hiding
I stand beside the sleuth watching the
Gravel run over the riffles
I make sure the riffles stay clean
So the heavy gold
Will deposit behind them and on the mat
I see the flash of color and utter excitement
I yell, “We've hit gold,” impatient
With my tweezers and small jar
For safekeeping and
I keep on cleaning
When the day is done, tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat
We clean the miners mat into a bucket
By the campfire we sit and pan our gold from the black sand
After the hard day’s work we undertook, it is wonderful
To see all the sparkling gold dust in my pan
The same warm excited feeling
I felt when my husband placed
My gold wedding band on my finger
12/27/2014
Time can be counted in milliseconds
Pay attention
To the cracks in the pavement
Where the sand grains no longer held their cement
The proverbial elephant
Resides in a matchbox of contented intent
And measure by micrometers
The distance of hairs
As a tiny mote floats into a sea of stars
Still wondering where the hell you are
Within the fluidity of atomic constructs
Or thought
To reach beyond all eternal
With the tweezers of a contrary telescope
So lost in the tiny vastness
The insignificance evaluated by the little presumptuous
Internal sees with a tunnel focus
Discerns the explanatory pores through its magnifying glass
Do not count the blades of grass
Or imagine a beach to be anything more
Everything else inconsequential
Outside the front door
The prodigal elephant
Struggles inside the matchbox of its purpose
While an entire universe contained within a single cell
Remembers how to construct a flower
And each breath is a hurricane
Between the footprints of forever
Time can be measured in dreams
In all those forgotten hours
Of sleeping
Where the grains of thought no longer held, to their cement
And wander upon the waters of one
The unified electrical fields of creation
With all the names it has born
Still waiting for the sleepers to awaken
The elephant inside a matchbox
Your past should be a reminder,
Of how far you have come.
Your past should be the key to the present,
Not to a ball and chain.
Your past should be a line in the sand,
That you never step back over.
Your past should be a record of past mistakes,
Not re-visited.
Your past should come with a map,
To buried treasure,
Not a bowl of rotten fruit.
Your past should spit you out,
Not suck you in.
Your past should leave you with a pair of Tweezers,
To pull out those annoying thorns in your side.
Not a microscope to pick out the nits.
Your past should send out some echoes of laughter,
Not waves of pain and regret.
Your past should be all present and accounted for,
So, you can stride confidently into a brighter future.
When dinning out in a restaurant there are things you should not do!
Please use the napkins that have been provided not the edge of the table cloth
while pretending to be absentminded and leaning lopsided
If your roll flies of the table politely say whoops or even oops will do
as long as you pick it up so someone else doesn't ski doo
When your belly is a little larger and is sitting on your plate
as you try to investigate what happen to your plate
sit further back or bring your own crate
While eating your delicious dinner you proceed to pick your nose
explaining to your guest a fly flew up your hole
when you know this isn't so
Now as for gas goes you feel your stomach start to rumble and roll
seeking a way out below
whether it's loud, quite, or a little tweak it's definitely going to stink
If you feel a burp coming on leaving a taste in your mouth
like that of a derriere
keep your mouth closed so nobody else has to wave and swear
Now ladies with the bright red lip stick who feel you have to rub
your teeth with your fingers searching for those sneaky food invaders
do it in the bathroom and you can even use your tweezers
When dinning out without a doubt good hygiene is a must
please at stay home if your hair is so greasy it's started to gather dust
While slurping can be a sign of good taste
it's not if you are eating in haste and half of the food is on your face.
So please show some couth when dining out!
T Reams 4/4/2015
Four Short Poems for the Apocalypse
Poem #1 – “Reality Bites”
Feeling so hopeless.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I can feel it, but I don’t know quite where.
Reality bites.
Feeling so awkward and sad.
I knew it was bound to happen.
But still,
I can’t get it out of my mind.
The last time I saw her,
There in that stuffy smelly room,
She was shooing the demons away.
It is true.
The gods make those who are about to die
As mad as gadflies
Without blood to suck.
Reality bites.
Feeling so empty.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I thanked the stars the night she died.
Poem #2 – “Part Biscuit Part Bone”
I shiver when I think about it.
Getting’ up at four in the morning to walk six miles.
There is only one fool who would do such a thing.
My brain is sometimes cracked like my sidewalk.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
But when I walk in the darkness
The entire world is mine.
I am the only one alive
And I salute the ghosts in the shadows.
They want my soul
And I want their ethereal essences.
I shiver when I think about it.
Maybe death is like a walk at four.
There is only one fool who would think that.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
Poem #3 – “Baked Babylon”
Squeezing the forceps, handlessly
Like a pair of tweezers with no grip.
I groan and suffer alone.
Like Grover Cleveland back in 1892
When his cancerous jaw was dug into
By mustached doctors wearing pink carnations,
Digging and gouging and tugging
Like some gravedigger looking for soft earth.
Baked Babylon is my grease.
Let it smoke and oilize.
I want death for myself, no one else.
One billion children do not deserve the incineration.
Poem #4 – “Why Am I Thinking?”
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I stink?
Is it because I’m stuck breathing?
Why am I dying?
Is it because life is a game with no winners?
Is it because I seek pleasure in a world of pain?
Why am I crying?
is it because life is so futile?
Is it because death is the best part?
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I can’t help it?
Can’t help stopping the inevitable?
Oh death!
You wait for me over there,
Like a forlorn lover,
Behind shaded curtains in the night.
Once seduced by his junior coworkers
Old man took his dates to the lockers
They used penile tweezers
And shagged like young weasels
Too bad he forgot beta-blockers
My nanna
Looking at my nanna sitting in her chair
Tweezers in her hand plucking her chin of hairs
Putting on her rouge and lipstick a bit over the edge
Shouting at her friend are you ready over the spring hedge
Off to town they go
Paying all their bills
Once a month she leaves her house and that is all my friends
My nanna the women that saved my soul, the woman I loved so dear
The meals laid upon the table heaven forbid if you were not there
And in the morn of Sundays come you would here her sound
Get out of bed its five in the morn your sheets I need to wash and air
My eyes full of ducks poop yawning form my mouth
Hurry nanna its freezing cold, hurry warm the house
On Sunday night its bath time and our hair must be dried
Don’t want you catching cold so she rubbed it till it shined
And if we got in trouble and we hurt our nana’s needs
On the lawn we would have to sit and dig up all the weeds
But all good things must leave this earth and nanna had to go
I miss her smile and warmth and touch but this I do know
She will always be with me and never leave my side
And it’s thanks to my nanna that I have survived
Morning
Having sighed a great sigh
He perused all his tools
From the mainsprings and tweezers
To the wheels and the jewels.
He removed the large case latch
From the pocket watch cover
To survey all the insides
As he would any other.
He wasn't familiar
With a watch of that kind
And confused why the workings
Ran two days behind.
He adjusted his loupe lens
And then gasped at least twice
At the solid gold workings
Inside the device.
Noon
He rang up the owner
Who was due to arrive
At the shop to collect it
At twelve twenty-five.
"OK I will fix it
In time for your date
But as it's important
I'm upping my rate."
The owner grew worried
And made it quite clear
By accepting the offer
Amid cries of "Oh Dear!"
The watchmaker laughed
As he put the phone down.
He could now spend the extra
That night in the town.
Night
Once inside of The Tabard
He ignored his bad health
And turned to his drinking
To help pardon himself.
Having switched all the gold
In the watch for cheap tack
He swapped some for whisky
With a man in the back.
On his way home he stumbled
Through the storm and the wind
Tripping over a cat
Who'd appeared and just grinned.
Later That Night
Slumped under a tree
And left gasping for air
The watchmaker's own time
Stopped right then and there.
I ain’t a doctor and never will be,
but one night I got into hot water,
I was trying to help but it didn’t help me,
the night a young wife had a daughter.
And it all began with a sunset,
and me underneath a palm tree,
cutting some fronds off the palm,
due to threats from the S.E.C.
As I cut away fronds near the wire,
a spike lanced into my hand,
and try as I might to retrieve it,
the flamin’ thing had made a stand.
I couldn’t quite hold it with tweezers,
and a needle could just feel the end,
now seeing that it’s after hours,
outpatients I’ll have to attend.
And quietly I sat and I waited,
my turn for the doctor to see,
when a fellow stormed through the door,
in panic he yelled, “Please help me!”
“My wife is out there in a taxi,
and right now she’s having a baby!”
Swiftly the waiting room emptied,
and the only one left there is me.
So I ran to the aid of the father,
and flung open the taxicab door,
removing the young mothers clothes,
and throwing them onto the floor.
Her contractions were ever so close,
I could tell by the way she did shout,
so I yelled at her “Keep on pushing,
and the baby will find its way out.”
But she insisted on wanting to sit up,
I laid across her, to hold her down,
her legs and her arms were all flaying,
and she really was going to town.
Now I was beginning to panic,
‘cause I think her water just broke,
and as I tried to feel for the baby,
somebody grabbed me and spoke.
It was the young mother’s husband,
who thanked me but said, “You’re too late,
my wife has delivered a girl,
and you’re in the wrong taxi mate!”
The frog jumps from pool to puddle...
brain-death spark
exhibits its unconscious species net
no more heartbeats
the cold amphibious skin is icy...
scalpel drill claw tweezers
cuts butter-like biceps
triceps tympanum
that will spend the night
in the formol thrash can...
radius tibia will be eternal
in the skeleton stand...
hyperclean surgical gloves
among soap pumps
clean hands
all sterile
one or two tears
a small dignified silence
and all has ended
A is for an album to hold my stamp hoard,
B is for back of book where my “specials” are stored.
C is for the cancellation that causes such strife,
D is for definitives with their unlimited life.
E is for excitement, the thrill of the find,
F is for fiscal and its financial bind.
G is for the gum that sticks them in the post,
H is for the hinges displaying those I love most.
I is for imperforates, those joined with no holes,
J is for a Johfra box to soak off without bowls.
K is for a killer mark that destroys a stamp’s worth
L is for local stamps with a limited dearth.
M is for the magnifying glass used for searching out flaws
N is for the newspaper stamps that brought headlines to our doors.
O is for “officials” with a government cachet
P is for postage due when the sender fails to pay.
Q is for the Queen’s head on all British stamps
R is for retouches and forgers re vamps.
S is for a stockbook for stamps that are spare
T is for tweezers to handle them with care.
U is for unused, a stamp postally mint,
V is for variety, it has a fault in its print.
W is for watermark to prove authenticity
X is for xanthic spots, rust, that strikes without pity.
Y is for youngsters and encouraging their dream
Z is for Zemstvo a rare Russian theme.
To see a stamp thrown in the bin, now that is such a crime,
I’ll revere it in my collection making it sublime.
Written 1st March 2013 by Rachel Fawcett. I am a Trained Nurse by day and spend my time off collecting stamps and trying to write poetry. I haven’t been publicly writing very long and this is only the second poetry competition I've ever entered. I love writing as it stretches my imagination and I enjoy the challenge it brings. I love collecting stamps as they bring order to my mind.
See we know about traditional old skool
gangster new school and mumble
well I’m the additional
mister medicinal
brain cells missing
brain fail consistent
I’ll stand here and diss you all
don’t get me fishing fool
I didn’t grow up on a council estate
an idiot losing count of mistakes
with fists thrown in hate at mates
that hip girate away lay my babe no lady
lately grating cheese placed in the freezer
I don't know that meaning either.
I tell big munters I ain’t really a geezer
and joke I once choked on a Malteser.
no Jesus please unless it’s Christmas or Easter.
I'm not gona eat a pineapple pizza a meat I'll eat easier
but picking pineapple pieces placed is waste unpleasing
each to their own as their own they teach
from fresh green grass to sweaty as on the beach
dream out of reach move over move closer seek
gangstas can be geeks
aint set change step reset no fret repeat geeze
no teasers hair pulled by tweezers
uprooted remove streets find uses
but choose the choice you've got used to commit
convict and glue stick useless urban true
as for me always me and only me how I be
cus I'm happy as different unique and genuine
crown me king as I separate from the crowd
I'm proud I'm me un-scouted lout, nah not now ,
what's that about, when talent drought no go
Medicinal Champagne am I bow bow
that’s the MC I please needs
it ain’t musical it’s a free read
Limericks croises : Once a Rigolo Tennisman
won Wimbledon
Once a Tennisman won Roland Garros
Made a speech drowned in tears of rose
Said : « Of all Tournaments
Love this best – Compliments ! »
Nation enveloped his heart with applause.
Then he won the US tough Masters
Made a speech that sounded like tweezers
Said : « Of all Tournaments
Love this best – Compliments ! »
Nation loved watching twitching whiskers.
Then the Ladies Man won Aussie Open
Made a speech without keeping mouth open
Said : « Of all Tournaments
Love this best – Compliments ! »
Nation kept its Heart all stripped open.
Then Rigolo Tennisman won Wimbledon
Made a speech on Central Court of London
Said : « Of all Tournaments
Love this best – Compliments ! »
Nation rose as ONE : « Git the Hell…Ye Con ! »
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
My tech of nology is some what limited
Even when I try to get things printed
But to transfer pictures is testing me
Failed to connect keeps harrassing me
Tech of nology is a crazy puzzle
Has tied my mind into its muzzle
To think of a plan of what that might be
I decide to make a nice cup of tea
But impatient am I or a fool I may be
I begin to embark my challenging journey
The memory card will not work
And bluetooth is making me feel like a berk
Do I confess and give up now?
Or carry on with my prowl?
I take a deep breath and count to ten
I will win this and transfer them
I remove the card to check it's ok
Then put it back in, but the wrong way
So here I am with this new struggle
Stuck it is, oh I'm in a muddle
A needle, a toothpick I did apply
The tweezers I know, I will give them a try
My choices of tools I was desperate you see
To win back my card my phone kept from me
As I pulled and tugged as hard as can be
It shoots straight out into my cup of cold tea
Fingers dives in and fumbles around
To my relief the card quickly found
A blow on the card and a gentle shake
Come on card give me a break
Placed on towel paper to dry
A warm blow from the hairdryer next I try
More thoughtful this time I insert the card
But no it's still just a bit to hard
I cuss at myself for being so silly
Win I will, I'm a determined Milly
Finally inserted I am ready to go
I press the buttons but alas it's a no
No pictures was found they are lost in the sea
By the mug of my cold cup of tea