Best Wring Out Poems
I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer,
yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear.
Me mind's wanderin twixt big **** and riches,
bein able to scratch at what itches,
without scratchin the bum out your britches.
If they think you got what,
they'd rather they'd got,
mate, hang onto your hat,
they'll bloody take that.
That girl in black tights, so jam-packed with delights,
nights full of delights in them slow movin tights.
She's not, like Jacko reckons, a whore.
Wouldn't lie on me bare wooden floor.
Christ, I did nothin to get to be poor.
And you can't pay what's due
so your creditors sue?
Funny old world, not half.
But good for a laugh.
I can't help but hear next door's shoutin and tears,
all their shoutin and tears, I can hear em from here,
through the stem of me glass on the wall.
Pray to God he don't hit her at all.
I'm half pissed and spliffed and I never could brawl.
But I stand in the queue,
for a place in the zoo.
Heard you shouldn't have pride.
They wouldn't have lied.
A party's upstairs but I can't breathe their airs.
I won't breathe their airs, them there upstairs.
So I fill the bathroom with me smoke.
All those girls shaggin some other bloke.
I just lie here and soak and suck in me toke.
What's it like not to do
what your needs need you to,
to beg borrow or steal,
to make stuff come real?
I hear downstairs' soul hit his lavatory bowl.
That porcelain bowl gets the whole of his soul,
as I wring out the bladder of red.
All the sweetest of girls, Jacko said,
have big whites to their eyes that aint never've bled.
There aint nothin so nice
as those whitest of whites
on rich girls
with sweet arses
in slow movin tights.
I think I'll open a tragedy club
where people can come to weep
I'll tell the saddest stories around
admission will be cheap
I'll call the venue Tragic Relief
where heartache is the norm
and "open mike night" amateurs
can mournfully perform
To be a standup tragedian
has been a lifelong dream
No longer caring to cry alone
I might even form a team
We'll bill ourselves as "Wailing & Tears"
and tour throughout the land
We'll have them bawling in the aisles
til they can hardly stand
They'll cry a mighty river
at our films from year to year
We'll throw in fresh cut onions
just to wring out every tear
Appearing at my club some time
to do a special show
the hottest new tragedians
will tell their tales of woe
No matter if your background is
from denim or fine silk
we'll gather round and cry all over
puddles of spilled milk
So take a break and come on down
and turn your joy to grief
Just keep your eyes peeled for the sign
that says Tragic Relief
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Shall glass behold your countenance, my prince?
Appears your smile whilst shining shoes on feet.
My honesty and faithfulness convince - - - - - -
Your heart to trust…our hearts concede to beat.
One day does not a week make, dear. Let’s tell!
A Friday makes a lifetime wife! Oh yes!
This lonely man, like diamonds in the well,
becomes a shooting star to shine, to bless.
Get well within a hospital ~ not bliss.
Each argument, we bleed, we cry and die.
After so many years – we bond, we kiss.
No closer pair on line - our eyes drip-dry.
My Prince and his gal Friday calm, at rest.
We wring out tears, renew our vows ~ we’re blest.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Sit and watch the thin, blank dawn
that never quite sweeps you off your feet.
Wrestle with memories that don't want to be suppressed,
and repress the urge to canon-ball into the ocean.
(sinking: sinking slowly, because you never learned how to swim.)
Listen to rainbows churning in oil-spill puddles,
and wait for the beautiful oblivion to take its toll.
Somewhere inside you know things will never be the same again,
but that's okay with you, sickening as it seems.
(you want to float away into seaweed forests and play fetch with the big, bad wolf.)
Dream of living a full, happy life
while you tear your world apart.
Sell your body to those dark, dank demons in your cerebrum,
whimpering and wondering deep into the night.
(praying for a chance to show your worth while you still exist.)
Sink low beneath the foaming sea,
wring out your hands and paint your thighs with scarlet letters.
Let the wolves lap the salmonella from your fingertips
and wrap yourself in red - lay face down in the snow, don't breathe too deeply:
(someone dances in snowflakes nearby.)
Watch the thin, blank dusk
that never quite sweeps you off your feet.
Wish for brazen arms and a warm crook of the neck to rest in.
Hug yourself beneath the covers and silently cry; you know now...
(no one wants to comfort a girl who craves suffering.)
You will never be what anyone wants.
The monks gave me a bag of Thai oranges
Before I left for the States.
Next time I come, I’ll have learned more Lao,
I promise.
They promise there will be more to show the next time.
Sitting outside the Khop Jai Deu restaurant
Waiting for my bus to come
Elvis is crooning “Return to Sender”
Because there’s no such number,
And no such home.
I took a photo of the fountain
Next to the Scandinavian Bakery,
Tuk-tuk drivers loitering nearby.
Handing them some fruit,
They ask, “How long are you staying in Laos?”
And I reply,
“This is my last day.”
The sun looks like it could be peeled wide open
While I take a bite of a giant orange,
Trying to wring out a last memory from this light,
Wondering when the King’s song is ever going to end
The scent of citrus on my hand
Sinks deeply past my bones,
Trying to harden into an anchor
The shape of a kind heart.
My eyes will be held open
devouring all beauty imparts,
catching what I can each moment,
every glimmer of God’s art;
I will seize creation’s glory
in every vista in my sight
unveiling life in daylight,
letting go the fearful night.
Today is only seconds long
as apportioned by the clock;
I will relish every minute
leave my soul windows unlocked.
Yesterday is a memories’ book,
tomorrow’s sun may not surprise;
I will wring out every drop of joy
And feed my starving eyes.
Copyright, October 26, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Go tell it on the mountain
That – twenty eleven is for Robin!
Once I was on the road to perdition
And my mind was wrought
But then saw I the light
Shinning so bright
And all was right.
Now that I have got myself a gun
I will shoot my way to Zion
Roaring like a lion!
Yeah - I am not afraid of Babylon
For mine eyes have seen her ruin.
I want uncommon heroes for twenty eleven
All dead and slain!
For his marvelous patience – Darwin
And for his unconquerable faith – Saint Campion
Edgar Allan Poe – for his crazy imagination
Just in case someday I will have to bleach my skin
I will add Michael Jackson
Ofcourse I wont forget Mrs. Simpson
Lest I fall in love and it will be my ruin.
Mine vision won’t be written on the wall
Unlike that of Habakkuk the Prophet
But I will inscribe it in my heart
Lest it will be seen and copied by all.
For I have been taught not to trust
By the lady whose smile is so bright!
And don’t let it be forgot
That when faced with reality.
I managed to wring out of life
A promise of eternity
To my utmost relief.
After I thought all I thought
And felt all l felt at the end of twenty ten
What philosophers call reflection
I resolved! No, I firmly purposed! Yes - I determined to write!
But write what?
Does it matter - will write myself a verse, a story, or even a sermon
Because of all the titles given to men
The tag writer appeals to me the most!
And if this be vanity
Then make the most of it!
If I walk alone through a thousand days,
each hour I shall try to make peace
with my past, with my battles, my loss and grief -
my soul shall still hope, though my smile’s stay is brief.
Today, oh today, I’ll overcome dread,
unwrapping myself from guilt’s unmade bed.
I’ll squeeze clouds overhead, wring out my tears found.
I’ll loop stars in my sight, unshackle feet bound -
to feel embraced when all love seems to die,
to stifle my sobs until brown eyes dry,
lifted from exhaustive anxiety,
unburdened by a crippling frailty.
I’ve reproached my Father, head bowed in prayer,
my heaviest heart has poured out till bare.
Despite bricks I lay, I know He still cares.
Oh, more than I care for myself today!
I’ve hidden under blankets smothered
in my childish uncertainty, covered.
I’ve pretended with my deceptive smiles;
for a midnight sun’s warmth, I’ve reached out for miles.
To cower in anxiety, to wail in my frailty,
I’ve come to stumble and accept
an echo deafened by my hollow steps.
Weighed down by an ever taunting earth,
in a lonely, ailing mind, I hurt.
Perhaps, tomorrow I’ll build a new bridge
freed from this escapable bondage.
*an old poem revised
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,
But Whiskey makes you frisky.
Clerihews and epigrams are fine but
Do not tell these to one lost in love
Except when you mean to cheer up one
Fevered with temporary amourous setbacks.
Gift them the gift prized by one and all
Humour - evoking laughter or perhaps a smile
Inviting a participation in the balm laced with
Jokes, both ribald and a bit of the plain
Killing the gloom of mindless regret and remorse.
Laughter is the best medicine, they say,
Mightily potent to dissipate every whiff of gloom
Nostrum for broken hearts and the flings and arrows of life.
Ophidian ilk are friends that are wry, shirking a shoulder
Pretending with masks to smile away misfortune yet
Questing to wring out sweet savor from other's calamity.
Roar unto the wind a bit louder than the storm
Spoiling what they seek with your tuppence attitude.
Take what is yours, let no one deny you your share
Under any circumstance do not relent for what is your due.
Verity is a virtue that'll stand in good stead,
Warmth towards your fellows won't ever waste.
X-factor's something natural not something you fake,
Yearning for glory like a harlot who'll sell.
Zing is the thing with this homily, my friend.
~27 May 2016~
My eyelid clings to a nebulous newspaper.
The breakfast table, like a silent stranger.
in black and white ink
on which page i’ll never know
the drowning ink speaks
I’m a cashier, my first real job, and
a high school student. I immerse myself
into the day, yawning with wake-up tears.
Monica bears news
she has dark hair and glasses
a fortune to spill
My coworker and peer, begins with
“Did you hear about…”
And her words, like high tide roll in…
the night sea splashes
against the serrated edge
~ clean cut of forehead
Tragic news for my best friend, former teacher, peers, and neighbors. This young man, at the top of his senior class, was taken down by whirlpool hands.
graduation boon
celebration of their lives
~ flotsam in the lake
My biology teacher’s eyes, red and sore with tears, wrestle with mine. His son,
nearby, in a treasure chest. I hold my teacher’s hand, wanting to wring-out his pain.
no difference in age
all boundaries slip away
in whirlpool of pain
But, lest you think this the only tragedy, a newspaper article was written containing the names of several more friends, neighbors, classmates
who died that year. A serial killer it was not, but strange all the same.
newspapers in wait
contain the weight of our lives
facts not yet revealed
10/27/2017
Dust Off A Memory Contest
She’ll trumpet a mid-summer’s lilac revolution
To smash and grab and take your affection
A twinkled-eyed assault of sweet-toothed pleasure
On half-composed clarity’s measure
She’ll launch a pillow-cannoned war
On every certainty of beauty you had before
She throws light around like a star in the sky
Even her sleepy exhaust is a heavenly sigh
She gilds the clouds on drizzling days
She makes hope smile by her vibrant ways
If her lover embraced her in all her truth
She would be her lover’s fountain of youth
In moonshine night of wine and song
With gypsy-like fever she’ll wring out the wrong
She’ll dance and in dancing burlesque
Ideals of woman and grace painted picturesque –
By the moralistic mentors of caged-bird blues.
How this bluebird’s a phoenix by night’s fiery hues!
In hangover mornings of tangled heart-strings
Within the houses of healing you’ll hear she still sings
Of undesired responsibilities in a shaky jilted voice
A dew-soaked ballad to sunrise to which your only choice
Is to cater to her jazzy Simone-like disposition
To every her wiled whim, to her warmth, to her lilac revolution
Go through chores as, like a machine
the sunrise, sundown, the rains, and snow
the countryside pass by a train window
but can't drink the green valley to the lees
along the mountain slope the mist rises
swept clean by a light stream from among clouds
sea waves thrash the shore and back they go
the glacial river water flows down to the plains
poke the ecology to melt ice at the source
fertile lands begin to wear desert signages
channel energy to mine minerals and wring out oil
combust petroleum to run trucks and automobiles
disease and pandemic checkmate growth
damage life, in the gambit to make it hunky-dory.
I wait for 5 am in the flickering dusk,
Before the daylight is even relieved.
The last time I slept with someone beside,
I lay waiting for her to leave.
For me, things are no longer as they seem;
The minute I made it, I abandoned the dream.
I reach
For what makes me something you wouldn’t believe.
I told her she could leave her keys
In the door when she left.
I told her promises weren’t meant to be kept.
That the sacred should be ravaged and laughed at in death.
I told her she could wring out all of the nights when she slept,
In my arms as I wept—
I drove into my skin until everything was bled.
In a superfluous world, I have found nothing yet.
I am damaged beyond what anyone can see;
She said that she could only blame me.
I told her my life wasn’t meant to be complete,
That there is a wound from which all meaning had seeped.
I would pray that my soul was mine to keep,
Had I not died already,
Waiting for sleep.
She caught me trying to fill the empty bed,
With empty people that I never kept.
The compromise that was left unsaid,
The quiet that struck when they left.
She said the hate was in my head.
I put the knife back into the wound from before;
She couldn’t touch me there anymore.
I watched her collect her things—
Waver at the door;
I didn’t have to ask what for.
I told her she could leave her keys
In the door when she left.
I told her promises were never meant to be kept.
That we were makeshift together at best.
I told her she could wring out all of the nights when she slept,
In my arms as I wept—
I drove into my skin until everything bled.
I haven’t amounted to anything yet.
I am damaged beyond what anyone can see;
She said that she can only blame me.
Shapes of words wring out
Page penned fonts illuminate
I break my own heart