Long Bathtubs Poems
Long Bathtubs Poems. Below are the most popular long Bathtubs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bathtubs poems by poem length and keyword.
Cramped steps acquaint heavy hatch reluctant
Cushion hush cellar isolate, harsh sun migraines
Catapulted myopic into apocalyptic destruction
Crumple of coastal community permits my gains
Grim resilient, plotted alone, abided by rations
Tidal wave treachery turned streets to swamps
Flotsam tops remnants sea's fury didn't flatten
Successors gorge on corpses misfortunes crop
Erased ocean era, crook posts pitifully campaign
Brashly I churn bathtubs of backstroked arachnids
Inhabit rainforest ripple stream, source I can claim
Traverse canopy like trampoline, scout eyes active
8th March
Out of Mangrove
"American Grafitti" took me back again to High School in the 1960's
"Back to the Future's" nifty hot rod took me back in time and almost left me!
"City Slickers" took me way out west, to rustle cows and ride a horse
"Da Vinci's" code, did not bode well, the Vatican did not endorse!
"E. T. " turned out to be my friend, we peddled bikes far past the moon
"Forrest Gump" shared my lunch, and shared his chocolate just past noon
"Groundhog Day" is darn confusing, is it Monday or is it Tuesday?
"Hannibal" is one cruel dude,..........he sharpens teeth so he can chew me!!
"I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" invited me to toast their wedding
"Jaws" invited me to take a swim! Those who did, were soon regretting!
"King Kong", was one poor ape who climbed too high for past mistakes,
"Lincoln" had too much at stake, but ended war between the states
"Mummy 1" and "Mummy 2" made me cry for Mommy,...PLEASE!
"No Country for Old Men"...but young dudes look, and want to leave!
"O' Brother Where Are Thou?" escaped their chains to play like Ringo
"Psycho's" bathtubs scare me silly, my next motel will be Flamingo's
"Quarantine" because I'm sick? If I stay in bed, they call me lazy
"Rosemary's Baby"...yikes that kid? Babysit....?? Are you crazy?
"Superman" claimed that he could help me, but flew away with no advice
"Titanic" hit a piece of ice, (that Superman was not so nice!)
"Unforgiven" (now is Superman)...Clint Eastwood is the slicker guy
"Valkyrie"'s plot has thickened...Let's all poke Hitler in the eye!
"When Harry Met Sally" I was jealous....her cafe' scene has made me blush
Xanadu had me roller skating.......racing faster, while I'm dating
"Young Sherlock Holmes" was just a kid, I kid you not, he met his Watson
"Zoolander" 's slacks were Cuban made.. I borrowed some and they were awesome!
(and I'm exhausted!)
______________________________________________
For Cyndi's exhausting ABC contest!! Whew!
The War of Creation
They called them fascists and Nazis, the ones who wrote with blood on walls,
they stood them before the firing squads, the ones who dreamed too loud, too clear,
and bullets found poets in gardens, in Spains that bloomed with death,
for the word is a weapon too dangerous for those who sleep in peace.
Some chose the rat poison, others cut their veins in warm bathtubs,
for warm water receives the blood more gently than the cold air outside,
and others threw themselves from bridges or into propellers and sharks,
choosing to be torn apart rather than to die from within themselves.
Electroshock for those who wrote too true about the wars they'd seen,
and still they found a way to pull the trigger, in the end, alone,
for creation kills, not metaphorically, but literally, with hands of ink,
and madness is just another name for lucidity too sharp to bear.
Some drowned inside their own vomit, drunk on life and drunk on death,
and others drank until their livers became a poem, black and final,
and the sun of some was black before it ever had a chance to fade,
for artists wear eclipses on their chests like decorations from the war.
You want to be a writer? Step into the trenches, soldier, don't look back,
for on this battlefield the wounded lie everywhere and no one's coming,
some make it to old age with trembling hands and words still breathing,
but many starve like Vallejo, with unwritten poems in empty stomachs.
It's a kind of war in which the enemy is yourself, multiplied,
and creation is the grenade you throw and catch back in your arms,
and when they hit you from the blind side, from the angle you never saw,
don't come to me with your regrets, for I told you from the start.
Now I'm going to smoke a cigarette in the empty tub, no water and no blood,
and I will fall asleep with all the dead poets floating in the fog of my brain,
for to write is to die every single day and be reborn inside the words,
and the survivors are only those who learned how to die beautifully.
The trenches of literature are full of skeletons still clutching pens,
and their unfinished manuscripts are white flags waving in the wind of forgetting,
but we keep on writing, keep on dying, keep on throwing ourselves to propellers and sharks,
for this is the calling: to bleed ink until the paper becomes sky.
Translucent turquoise tide pools
soft shimmer on the sand,
mirrors for vain seagulls,
bathtubs for crusty crabs.
The tide slap lapping on the beach,
cavorting up and down the shore
with sounds of gentle laughter
mixing tumbling rocks and broken shells.
Adrift along a fantasy,
stretched out upon the sand;
my mind a merry fishhook
baiting dreams like fishermen.
Above, the sky’s bright powder puff
has rouged my cheeks like shells,
spritzed freckles across my nose,
brown spray amid the swells.
Days like these cannot be bought
nor pursued as treasured store;
you stumble on them, mindlessly,
whether rich or whether poor.
A gift to lift your hefty load,
from life’s harsh grind, reprieve;
lay back, let salt sea breezes blow
and feel your stress unwind.
Copyright, May 1, 2022
She's thirty-three, single,
her Mom babysits her
five year old son.
She reassures herself it's
just two more hours,
then it's the blessed weekend.
Which means delicious sleep.
She has no nest egg,
she's just getting by.
There is one kind aging matron
who makes her lunch when she
cleans her large stately home.
Yet, other well-to-do homeowners
cast their false superiority heavy
in the air as she imagines wiping
off their smug faces with Pledge.
She hums to a catchy pop tune
while scrubbing toilets and
spraying down whirlpool bathtubs
as her muscles ache,
wishing she could soak in one.
Maid for the ungrateful,
she smiles remembering her
First Holy Communion,
her snow-white lacy veil,
with her rosary of pearlescent
ivory beads.
Then, a memory of
teenage politics of high school
with random daydreams like
impromptu snapshots.
Her lips and throat dry from
those wretched aerosol sprays,
always forgetting her face mask.
A few sips of tepid Gatorade,
as she softly prays her son will
excel in school.
Her learning disabilities held
her back despite her gift of
intelligence.
This day's cleaning was at the
home of a lawyer's snooty wife,
who was lunching with friends
after klutzy attempts at tennis
at the country club.
Maid for the ungrateful,
can hardly wait to get home
to soak her worn feet with
warm water and Epsom salt
in a porcelain basin. ~
We carry small talk above our heads, ceilings drip clouds.
Nothing is put away. Coats dangle over chairs in layers.
Drugged by spate and mizzle, denim droops,
snagged over rummage
and the outstretched arms of impedimenta.
The house awakes to a soft toed patter.
Around us, cuffs pull the roof closer to damp collars,
hangers weep in wardrobes,
while the unhung sink in muddy shallows.
Before the light paddles away, calico, cotton, and shirttails
are rescued, bundled into higher heaps;
the soggy separated from the merely mildewed.
The muddled and fusty raised above an imagined tide.
Tomorrow, front steps will be scoured;
the washed-out made to flap.
Squirrels may walk the earth again,
and if a blotting wind returns, we will wave
from dry bathtubs.
The land around here looks like it belongs to the side of a lake,
it slopes downward gently, suggesting a meeting with water,
it front-yard-surfs on grass rippling winds,
it slowly sails under the puffy power of clouds.
but the water is in our bathtubs and sinks,
it is in our plumbing and it gurgles and clanks
when its alcohol content runs low.
Water is forced uphill by a secret pumping station
on the far shore of the State freeway.
When it rains we consider this a drowning,
none of us will swim, considering swimming
a prolongation of our ultimate dark night,
besides our above ground pools allow only space
for the whelping of baby seals, and we honor that.
There is of course, always ice for tinkling glasses.
If the rain persists, we are all drowned by evening
then we can only roll gently, and dare not trust
the floppiness of potted feet,
and so we tumble towards an imagined lake
one that waits for us
at the end of someone else’s drive.
However by morns early light
we are washed up on this tilting land again
and all is as dry as beached fish bones,
bones that are known to be reconstituted into pills
for the medication of occasional overbrightness.
derecho of twenty-twenty-three
the sky got black in the afternoon
many people ignored the sirens
their houses began to shake and squeal
intense praying and screaming began
the lights went off, power lines were snapping all over town
there were sparks all along the freeways
the dreaded dastardly derecho was here
unlike a tornado, this wind was a straight tunnel
sixty miles wide, two hundred and fifty miles long
people stopped videotaping and ran to their bathtubs
throwing their children in first, lying on top of them
roofs were torn off
semis were lifted and tossed
landing upside down and sideways
in minutes our town was turned into a war zone
uprooted trees were sliding down the sidewalks
this enemy was fierce and determined
many of us did not expect to survive
hugging strangers after the aftermath
A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.
Five ducklings feeding
The back of the camper bus
proudly sported the family
seven yellow stickers ducks
five little ducklings in a line
feeding on life presented to
the world growth sustenance
nourishment and meaning
For every fellow traveller
to ponder smile anticipate
what little team was to alight
at temporary destinations
sheltered tented playgrounds
swings and roundabouts
cul-de-sacs and traffic lights
To get all ducks into a row
once they emerged enriched
our little feeding station
food bank vital well and
fields of plenty needed
diverse and un-divided
attention chaos letting go
Meal times at times with rubber
ducks in bathtubs burping
passing winds of change
incorporating kilojoules
compassion love and swirling
compromise uncertain certainty
floated in the ocean of life
yet to be swum and dived in
with the buoyancy of living
Little duckling was still small
and sat beside as older
sister eager helper supervisor
when our triplet power three
in one as courtesy of nature
and individual little mouths
to feed lay on their backs
on sleeping bags as wonderment
in waiting for the spoon with
apple mush and cinnamon
to take its turn to reach their gums
To complete the pentagon
of childish folly serious fun
and exploration another little duckling
observed from inside womb in
its fertile spring to yet conjoin the river
contemplated when and where
to splash out into beauty question marks
and tribulations sparkling brotherhood
and food for life and pleasure
whirlpools cascades and little ripples
The spoon went one to one
and to another next to here and
there forward backward and beyond
my wildest expectations of what food
and feeding holding precious gifts
in hand released from nature
into nature ingesting measured
unimaginable and definite provision
nurtures nourishes what was what is
The birds have flown the nest
they feed and feed me just the same
and it is not just those trivial stickers
sign posts on the buzling bus
and more than ever and for
every one who wants to see the
picture depiction metaphor
the unsurpassed experience
which reminds me of simplicity of
gratitude and feeling warm inside
24th May 2016