Kettles Poems

People as Friends and kettles?

"My things as you."
People as Friends and kettles?
"My things as you."
The witness deprived 
Absorbent in deny
How in interchange 
Are we spoken
Misleading waste
Papers as snakes
Only in cuisines
Last, hander of things
Gone in time
Decade of take
Sales of ink
And all town
How to announce 
Tone?
And all are tow'n

Being towed in the time
 Time of all Involved as microcosm In discussion from?


Fearing reprimand of ink as letters ?
Allowing incorrect Consistent sing 
the blind justices repeal?
 Confound surrender?

Your not printing the article 
Your afraid of reading 
And the "free" cost! 
Remains are extensive

The times grow small inside of earths journals

My sistas
A good woman once prevailed 
Yet as her eyes sight the abandonment vessel
Reluctant wrath hatred vision
Prometheus googles
Declare upon the abomination 
This place the unaffected

A Sip of Oblivion

Put a little cardamom in it.
Spice it up!
Cloves are great for health.
Add that in too!
A pinch of cinnamon.
Wow, what a robust flavor!
Don’t forget Ginger!
Peel and feel the texture.
Drop it in!
Pitch black tea leaves.
It leaves you with a strong, but bitter sensation.
Hear those bubbles sing and dance while boiling,
Steam shoots up in the air out of the tea kettles’ spout,
like a rocket to the moon.
Yes, I can drink this to the moon and back.
A tasty concoction of flavor in this tiny little cup.
Simply just pleases your taste buds.
Stems from the country of India.
Spicy and yet so sweet.
Makes your day complete,
rather than incomplete.
Under the summer heat.
Or embracing the streaks of cold air,
while wrapped up and gulping,
then saying: “This beverage is just one of a kind”.

More isms

Who is throwing  at fans
is it the spinning fans
Or like beliebers

What if it’s a picture of 1000 words

What’s slack and why are you cutting it

the. hang re they get better

Do contortionist really try to help

I sat on a globe didn’t feel any happier

Are pots racist to kettles

What if you are on one of the other eight clouds

Who are these people hitting books, roads, bottles and sacks

All those years hitting nails on the side

The li r nes
………..e
………..a
………..d

I’m selling broken puppets no strings attached

Got chased by some geese it was wild

Head full of Ideas

An Eiffel tower with a red bow popped up in the back
Of a head full of unauthorized ideas encouraged by whom?
Strings of pearls began lounging around, hanging from her poofy hair
Who is in charge of this dream? She asked her busy muse.
Tea kettles and pears, the muse replied tea kettles and pears.
She woke with a start. Sweat in the small of her back.
Her nightie clung to her chest, feeling scratchy.
She picked up an ink pen with lavender ink.
Heard the sound of her muse laughing.
There were no words now, no memories.
No ideas, nothing at all.

Empty Booths

the diners are silent,

and close before dusk,

solitary kettles boil,

in quiet homes glowing in the night,

and unringing phones.

how are you today?

is all we ever say,

and one day we’ll all get together

A Dying Winter

It was a harsh, hard going season.

“It’s a dying winter, lad,”
he said, crunching words around,
a gnawed pipe stem.
Briefly embers sought a place to disappear.
Cinder gray eyes, set deep
into the crumpled grit of age.
A wry off-set smile.

Then one day he went back up
the clinker graveled path
to his small, low-roofed cottage,
with its squat, darkly puffing chimney,
oily cans, coal dusted kettles,
the fumy, over-stuffed parlor,
with its feet-warming, black,
fire-baked grate,
and one sooty cat.

Never to be seen again.

tea symphony

here to hereafter you and me

shout from the rooftops tea more tea

our kettles will hum

that head banging drum

and beat our spastic symphony.

Stirring my tea

In the pot, a memory, stirring, sweet,
Blended leaves, a dance of flavors meet.
Mornings greeted with a warming brew,
Guests welcomed anytime, with joy imbued.

Evenings, families, mingling delight,
Snacks and tea, a comforting sight.
A bygone era, those moments vast,
My heart yearns, wishing to recast.

Now a tea bag, in water's lively bubble,
Worldly varieties, a sip, a subtle cuddle.
The stirred bag, a lingering trace,
Sipped with pleasure, a fleeting embrace.

Tempo shifts, living's altered rhyme,
Kettles abandoned in this modern time.
Tea bags tidy, no mess to confess,
Yet, the charm of stirred leaves, a timeless caress.

Antiques

See dazzling bowls and vessels, pots of brass
Old copper kettles, cups of gold, and chiming clock
Porcelain statuettes, fake Tiffanies, stained glass
Oak storage towers, ivories of High Baroque 
Stroll down the antiques on Sunday noon
I’m fascinated by the scarab sooty bronze
I lost my face inside the silver spoon
In tapestries of life, with nymphs and fauns
We’ve changed, in this abundance of disclosure
Now I’m a voluntary slave on remnant sale
That figurine of steadfast tin soldier
Ready to burn for nothing in your tale.

Fuse Box

Thrown like a fuse box
I was torn between the seasons
October put me through Autumn and Winter
I hadn't a clue
I was lost in the Sand
which made me feel indifferent
The Moon in shade
the white orchids in bloom
I needed to unlock the sleepy hollow,
always on an unending road
their chosen zigzag
like old boots and kettles for inheritance

The Lowest Shelf Behind the Exibit

Sandlewood oils weirded the the room
a curtain rubbed with the oils
would be used during the concert to
fill the room with the scents as the
Bassoons of moring played with
the Strings of Night.
The Brass of evening glared as
as the electric band grooved
to make each sound bounce
 and move together.
I heard one guy decribe the sound as
six bassoons tied together
with chello strings with a snare
in the middle, and three gitars
over head, a bass, blues and metal.
with electric drums and , the snare,
and kettles.
enough sung.
enough sound.
enough said!
During  the show, she'd open the window
and let the curtains blow in the wind
sending in
the saddlewood oil scent across the room.
She Made interest in my land, we married months
after. Folk had interest in whether I was the father
of the child  that we so dilagently married to make ours.
Eithyer she was to tired of being afraid,
or being mean to make others tire of her. But he loves her,
might someone else be willing to meddle. That those who
make pretend they love him
might want to see them part!

Mosque Kettles

Because of mosque kettles,
Mama stay because
Grammar loves you, 
I will sell for a billion trillion dealion peppers
Tricked for a thousand years, 
Ask Babangida or Buhari,
They dine at the throne and palace,
While we pay subservience at their feet,
We went in with tools,
Came out with rules
With His sons,
Drank holy communion,
Which healed them of Corona Virus

Buzzword Beer

Zesty,
Yeasty,
Xanthous*,
Wheaty,
Velvety,
Unrivaled Taste,
Strangely Refined,
Quintessentially Pale,
Original,
Not Mass-produced, Large Kettles,
Just Intensely Hearty Goodness,
Fiercely Effervescent,
Deliciously Cold,
Bottled
Ale

----------

*yellow

Modulations

The camera inside the picture
concertina's time-lines into exclamation points.
Antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
help minds to adjust.

Some turn a grooved infinity sprocket.
Some cave paint on the arching
bones of elk heads.

If we are to discover what is out there
we must board a ghost train,
plot a milky way over a whiteboard -
orientate to relate.

Spirit, that invisible violin
in a trio of appearance,
is a lone lover.

The third lover arrives at night
walking across fingertips,
while a pale moonlight
moves hands around
a clock of want.

The other elements
of frequency modulation
are the sex machines
that transmits power to pressure,
they are small devices
that molest moments into prayer.

Lastly there is
the whistling tinker man.
The rattle of pots and kettles
behind his moving caravan
enchants all we children
of much lesser gods.

The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is in there
and out there
We must dare,

dare to look under seeking skulls
brace ourselves as a bridge
between their empty eye-sockets.

Spirit, that invisible violin,
unmolested by thought
must play a jig at a funeral.

Time, the whistling tinker-man,
must be set loose of his rags,
allowed to paint the wind.

The rattle of tin pots and kettles
the rocking of your caravan
are the tympanic chords,
drum-drumming
on a beach yet to be reached,

unless like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.

• Short Kettles Poems
• Famous Kettles Poems
• Best Kettles Poems
• Read Kettles Poems
• Long Kettles Poems
• Kettles Quotes