Corked Poems

Meatball Noose

Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun. 
Starlings chime down an alleyway.

Meatball Noose

Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun. 
Starlings chime down an alleyway.

Glass Flask

In this empty heart,
There's a glass flask
With magic, corked up,
In the corner, forgotten.
Once upon a time,
It was open—
Heart enmagicked
With notions
To fly and measure the sky,
To sink in the world of dreams.
Now they live in the flask so great,
Forgotten, just like my sweet,
Smiling face.

Firm Purging Orders

Slow down, Democrat!

Another Trump Bump;

speed again controlled -- 

your downhill throttle,
your Radical in a green
bottle...corked, the lessen: 
Don't Drink and fanatically
drive --  

All US gears back in Thrive!

Our Nation having had full,
of your screwy, Woke Jive -- 

You've been overwhelmingly 
voted out, to unclog the Nation's 
impacted, suffering Republic Orifice;

The People have loudly spoken~ 
showing the exit-corridors,
to Left Politicians lacking acceptable,
sane, moral borders --

American has taken a huge laxative dump

Bowel corrected, clear for freshly discharging

those newly elected given firm, purging orders!

Message In A Bottle

A long reach of in-coming tide
laid it gently at my bare feet -
a green, corked wine bottle.

I could see a note within it still,
curious, I took it home.

That evening,
by the light of a desk lamp
I opened it,
revealing a handwritten message,
It simply read:

"Too Late."

NOT PLONK

NOT PLONK

A well-corked bottle lets nothing escape
Subtle added tastes from an oaken cask
I’ll sip and enjoy this fine cultured grape

Is a well-rounded body too much to ask
A label removed where words are hung
What other joys lurk behind this mask

Flavours still swirling around the tongue
Notes of warm sunshine one can detect
It’s as if somehow, a soft melody is sung

They say that terroir has a major effect
But frost will always have the last word
That late autumn sunshine can’t correct

A sommelier should know all, I suspect
Which wines to dismiss, which to select

To Boot

double midterm 

a sinner complex
you hear train whistles 
say to yourself 
he’s nervous 
cat corked up
in my window 
a caboose in my house 
boose if you need it
double voyage  duplex 
many moons ago bad luck
whole bunch of holloween years 
to boot

How Do You Feel

I feel bubbly but corked
Reserved and labeled
In the light, I sparkle
However, my home is dark
And cold
And chilled
No, I'm not a message in a bottle
Floating across the sea
Never to be found
Or a keepsake that's mothballed
No, I sit in the cellar of life
Collective and silent
Like a vintage wine
And worse, as someone's housewife
My husband uncorks me
At his whims
And on his special occasions
His eyes tell me he savors the taste
As he sips away my abyss
Yet as his eyes become fulfilled
I am left empty and downtrodden
Then he corks me back up
And takes me back down

Water

In bottles corked by a nursing mother
Against thirst that would her baby bother;
In large drums hoarded by ablution-enthused Muslim
Who stories of its scarcity take with eyes unusually dim.

A dry cleaner’s spiteful curse of a dry tap
That wouldn’t help his trade, a hurting slap!
The keyed-up state of a seeker of a mouthful of it,
An insight into the whiplashes of not conserving a bit,
As much so, the helplessness of a camel driver
Belatedly aware of no oasis ahead nor the look-alike of a river.

Water is the double assurance of life in a world unlived,
To this end, a phenomenon that should be believed
While it continues with a dignified silence
Against foes teaching Rubbishy Science.

Water is never by, parched throats disdained
Rather ‘Archbishop’ by Adam’s Apple ordained;
Always usefully engaged here
And productively canalized there...
But watch it, in a big one, you go down
And you are sure to drown!

Fo'C's'Le Ashes

Ashes collected into the collated casks and 
          Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on. 
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh. 
          Pounding the seed of echoing hope. 

Please go to https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/focsle_-_a_dream_1332542 for the balance of the poem. Thanks!

Submittted: Liberum Divisa 6 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Gregory Richard Barden 
Date submitted: 5/28/21
From: "F'oc's'le - A Dream"
Link to: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/focsle_-_a_dream_1332542
Result: Premier Contest - 2nd place trophy

I Am a Victim of Molestation

I evoke the moaning Stars,
Bad memories reviving behind my bars.
I recur not having a care ;
Imagining we were soulmates.

I relive being so elated,
To bring it to the top.
I remember where it all started ;
And where my meekness stopped.

I recall the closing door -
The way he fiercely corked.
I remember being so afraid ;
The way he wildly looked. 

I try to forget the menace, 
But I was forcibly stuck.
And I recall the obscession that occurred
The moment he tried to wave. 

I effort to neglect the disgrace and woe!
Curtaining for the bright. 
But I remember from that day;
Life was never the right.

I remember meagre more,
As the years passed. 
And I am still trying to escape;
From the massacre of his lust. 

I remember my family didn't know,
And I am not competent to share of. 
But I am afraid to go out;
As the neighbours are ready to harass of.

Sitting Here On Wooden Pier

SITTING HERE ON WOODEN PIER

Sitting here on wooden pier, 
Watching waves roll in
Sea-weed on the drift to shore,
The tide is on the turn,
A pelican floating by;
Searching, 
Searching, 
Forever searching,
Looking for another feed.
As Pandanus abound frequently,
Summer is nearly here;
The warmth from Sol above,
Is indictive suggestive feeling
Of long days around the corner.
As small crustacean abounds about
Leaving tracks and tell-tale signs;
Of whereabouts in sand.
Lonely sea-shell on tidal reach;
Existence of feeling
Of being all washed-up alone,
Far from depths, it came,
Maybe on another surge
Carried far back out to sea.
Faraway from home
And on the beach,
Corked in a bottle wrote;
Message from another place,
Message from another time.
As seagulls squawk and squawk;
Funny way they talk 
To one another when on the scrounge
For any titbits found.
And sitting here on wooden pier;
I am in my element
Enjoying what is here,
Of sun, surf, and sand….

Francis Cooper – Mac © Feb 2019

Blind Mice

two mice
in my room
at night
gnawing as
if a clock
one from my
bed to the
left and the
other to
the right

they exude the
illusion of time
getting past
every trap and
so their rasping
dentures
on wood
one the second
the other the
minute hand

and so they carry
on carrying on all
hours of the night
as if they want me
to once again set
the traps for the
exact reason of
being to be able
to smell and maybe
take the chance to

taste peanut butter
other then wooden
floor boards or
boring wine corks
that surely have
corked by now
yet now the day
and a day of
silence for
storing

their energy they 
will nightmarishly 
keep me awake
tonight as only
they see as no
light so their
stirring life
begins and
again the
gnawing

this ain't no
metephore
because my
wife i met her for 
a reason
and these
mice are
just 
teething
but teasing

but they
should've
listened to
the crickets
before eating
them because
that'll be the
day before i
cry but that'll
be the day

before
i die

Corked

i'm a belly
barrel full
of wine

but i've
been laying
down

all this
time so
don't

drink
from
me

as 
i do
you

even though
i'm well aged
now vintage

i
have
soured

If We

If we were a beach
then you would be the sand, diamond warmth,
and I the shingle underfoot.

If we were a pen
then I would be invisible ink,
and you a permanent marker, fluorescent.

If we were wine
you would be the vineyard, the grape, the wine list itself;
I a bottle unopened, left corked.

If we were a theatre
I am the playbill of a show cancelled and unseen;
you, the stage in spotlight: golden, applauded.

I the tile and you the whole mosaic
for us as a Roman floor;
I a shattered pane and you the handle
with us in the shape of a door.

As clothing – you a shiny button, me a thread to be snipped.
As hair – you a photographed trend, I a ponytail clipped.

If we were a couple,
Then you would be blind.
If our love was a tape,
I’d forever record, pause and rewind.

If we were a cake
you would be the fingertip licked icing
and I a batter filled lump.
If we were a body
then you would be the heart
and I the blood you pump.

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