Long Toothbrushes Poems
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Poetry contests. How ridiculous. Silly even. It is like comparing:
dogs with underarms,
underarms with toothbrushes,
toothbrushes with giraffes,
giraffes with garden parties,
garden parties with throw pillows,
throw pillows with coffee cups,
coffee cups with light switches,
light switches with spitballs,
spitballs with cinnamon buns,
cinnamon buns with alligators,
alligators with rubies,
rubies with motorcycles,
motorcycles with sumo wrestlers,
sumo wrestlers with bubble gum,
bubble gum with swimming pools,
swimming pools with rabid skunks,
rabid skunks with toothaches,
toothaches with garter belts,
garter belts with police officers,
police officers with dinosaurs,
dinosaurs with sauce pans,
sauce pans with an art show,
an art show with a pumpkin pie,
a pumpkin pie with a speedboat,
a speed boat with a stepmother,
a stepmother with another step mother.
Poetry contests are silly.
The Domed Teapot Movie Team stores
good running electrical engineering supplies for
the apprentice vape tester stationed
for training with other code guy
system connectors near the
erectifying rainbow falls of
Mr. Mojo's Old City
WHEREAS(S)
the Eccentric Frontier Goldmine Foundation State has
discovered a recent reference model indicating that
the Eclectic Ghoul Aid Company has failed the
combined skating/scooter/car/bike and
forest river vehicle acid test (though they
did oddly OVER_perform with
dirty toothbrushes while on
motorcycles)
ALL OF WITCH LEAVES US WITH
an Elected Peach Boutique Box Collection of
shadow games and chic cottage band
energies perfectly suited to the
Enneagram Test Cook's home decor
NUT TO MENTION (MUNCH ON?)
the elliptically concentric doctor of the
Goon Power Kingdom where
mad duke predicament bosses are
obsessed with my contraption wheel
drop way of UNDER_thinking the
biased fallacy of self-data camera
set collectors viewing the erect or
oral bored college process that
involves repairing old farts for
recyling at flea markets.
An eerie calm settled o'er Normandy Beach that solemn summer's night.
The debris of battle was strewn 'neath the full moon's silvery light.
The tide cleansed the beach of the blood of men who were in the fore;
Brave men who'd faced the hell of war on that ravaged Norman shore!
Those who gave their all, lay awaiting removal from that embattled strand.
With lifeless eyes and boots pointed t'ward the stars, they slept upon the sand.
Fathers, brothers, sons and husbands slain during the conflict's ebb and flow,
By the inexorable Scythe of Death in the battles of Pointe du Hoc and St. Lo!
What might these heroes have become if fate had not dealt them so?
A teacher, farmer, doctor, a minister? Alas, we shall never know!
They left farm, shop, school and hearth to cross the billowing sea,
And forfeited life on the Altar of Honor that others might live free!
The moonlight revealed treasured items strewn about on the ravaged beach.
Final letters to loved ones lay fluttering in the breeze, now beyond their reach.
There were wallets with photos of wives and children who are left to grieve.
Only the memory of his close embrace will their empty hearts now ever cleave!
Toothbrushes, razors, bloody shoes and socks were gathered by grieving mates,
As they tenderly cared for fallen brothers who've gained the Pearly Gates.
The moon glowed brightly that night o'er Normandy Beach as it paused on high,
To caress the cheeks of brave men as it passed on its eternal bourne in the sky!
D-Day 6 June 1944, Normandy Beach, World War II
Entry for Jamie Pan's "War and Heroism" Contest
To diary:
Mama, by now, I suspect you are on my trail
to Phoenix, however I do think you figured
it all out-the red herrings... and are instead
on the right path to Seattle. A part me wants
to challenge you. As much as you are in
pursuit of me, I am in pursuit of reading
about Evelyn Lau, teenage runaway and poet...
for the second time.
To diary:
I Got tree sap, aka hotel front desk worker,
for another blanket. It's too easy, mama. Watch."Ma'am,
my mother in room 101 request a blanket and pillow,"
and like clockwork she gave it to me, then I pause,
"ma'am can we also get some toothbrushes and toothpaste"
and like clockwork she gave it to me. What a tree sap.
Although this time our eyes met and I think she's onto
me. But that didn't stop me from taking a green apple
and newspaper. mama, let me tell you these come in
handy... let me tell you... oh, oh i just figured it
out, the lobby's the first floor there can't be a room
101. She's playing me. What else is new.
Today I went to the library
sitting at a nook
quite contrary
reading a book
the staff was cold as ice
i say screw the kiddie section
my answer not so nice
why is this the wrong direction
it's hard being eleven
where their prying eyes
on me being adult smart
they try to befriend and spy
the books I read
the information I consort
the knowledge I feed
the ideologies I support
baby girl plays the sham
changing the Lau book
with green eggs and ham
and returning their looks
this is all too irony
sleeping on the streets
dealing with their tyranny
and trying to be upbeat
I pass these books and nooks
I say She who forges her own path
being mistook
wields her own fate
with upending wrath
to being one of the greats
Paris Pachecho
connie pachecho
12/30/16
Don't sit down
until I'm done!
I've counted fifty,
if I've counted one
I sew the linings
of ripped hoodies
for my son,
and other shirts,
pillows, and blankets
some for students,
some were over-loved,
some because I wanted
to be young, beyond the cotton
they were tailored from
But in this dream,
I try to reclaim my bedroom
where the towels and comforters
are stored up high and forgotten
and someone filled the garbage
with empty mouthwash bottles
and unused toothbrushes
I was scared of a door that opened
by itself
in a house I lived in twenty years ago
My mom was always comforting
but I wanted to be brave
Wasteful and unnecessary,
as are the needles I never used
to mend the fabrics I never asked for,
the shirts, the books
I never read
'Somewhere Out There'
is a song written the year I was born
by Linda Ronstadt
and James Ingram
This American tale is short
and hobbling forward,
hopefully
"If love can see us through"
I will love you stronger than steel
if you make headway
Words are arbitrary,
Who says that is a W?
But who NAMED it?
Could not a W have been written as a Y?
Once upon a time, when someone created an alphabet?
Could not a 7 have been an S?
Liberating words.
Angry words.
Feeling words.
Written words.
On cave walls, parchment, canvas, paper.
Who says graffiti is not words? It very well might be.
Just because you cannot decipher, does not mean the words are not there.
Words passed down help us bring history to the ancestors without leaving anything out.
Words written down help us go back and have a do-over if we are unsure what was said.
Words. Glorious words.
I needed my children to love them.
Because I did.
When they were toddlers I began an intense word game that covered the house.
Everything was labelled. Door had a sign that said door. Pencil had a sign that said pencil.
I labelled toothbrushes, cups, bibs, bottles, drums, toys, dolls, and sometimes my husband.
I put DADDY on him.
I do not remember if I worded myself.
It was a long time ago.
The floor had a floor note but it did not last long.
The refrigerator had three notes taped together because I wrote big
And I had pre-chopped my word notes the same size.
Words.
A form of telling and communicating
That is not only good for a listener.
Words.
What would a song be without them?
How boring books would be if they were lacking.
Words.
The best invention of all, if you ask me.
Rats in the cellar, squirrels in the tree,
things aren't the same as they used to be.
When I left for school with my li'l lunch pail,
I didn't expect a penguin to swallow a whale.
Such an injustice, I've never seen,
a cantaloupe falsely imprisoned a bean.
It's unheeded screams, uncontrolled laughter,
when it's trolls that live happily ever after.
Doors off their hinges, pancakes are stacked,
biscuits are burning, windows are cracked.
Termites in the baseboards, rabbits that fly,
pigs that regularly take to the sky.
Voices that whisper, mad dogs that bite,
winds that go howling and look for a fight.
Wrapped in cellophane, mixed in a blender,
taped up in cardboard and returned to sender.
Rainbows and ravens, kaleidoscope dreams,
leafless branches, gallows lit by moonbeams.
Music boxes, pink ribbons and bows,
tags come on packages; tags come on toes.
Curtains lifted, sick, unsavory scenes,
gear wheels in gear wheels run strange machines.
Dissected, disowned and double-downsized,
unaided, unacknowledged and unrecognized.
Puzzles, conundrums that cannot be solved,
water plus turpentine make witches dissolve.
Pimentos are diced, harsh words are spoken,
nightmares are jumbled; eggshells are broken.
Lost in the doldrums, eyeballs protrude,
walking on blisters, a horse latitude.
Spineless jellyfish, lackeys and flunkies,
silver tongued vultures, branch swinging monkeys.
Experts and pundits, paid authorities,
Kool-Aid in canisters, down on your knees.
Bishops take pawns, the fat lady sings,
fires ablaze on black nights with kings.
Shattered stars, fragmented stones,
shining splinters, bleak, burning bones.
Songs without meaning, songs without words,
sung by unseen phantoms and silent birds.
Refrigerators with pictures nobody knows,
eyes staring back, no answers disclose.
Spiders and spinning bicycle wheels,
buffalos, bandits, and slippery seals.
Electric toothbrushes, electric chairs,
lethal injections, pushed down the stairs.
Pieces on the floor, a sad state of disarray,
the gift you've left me is insanity's bouquet.
You stole my cookies, pilfered my cat,
laughed at me roundly and turned me down flat.
Mice it in the attic go chitter chatter,
have I lost my wits or gone mad as a hatter?
I've never been good with things.
Electric toothbrushes need a lot of thought,
Some honey jars
need more passion to open then I have.
Putting things together
is not my thing.
I break easy when mending.
I shine at midnight.
My hands
become as flexible as sea anemones.
Words look from my eyes,
or else I tend to fall in love,
with dead dogs, or roadkill.
By morning I am asleep
in my body again.
Skills scream and flee,
as I stumble towards
their small heartbreaking hopefulness.
I am good at twisting things together.
like knotty ropes and thin threads,
people come to me
(mostly the young and naïve),
Arrive riding skateboards through hilly clouds.
They come to admire, my left-handed life,
soon they turn away,
unconvinced
by my slack grasp upon reality,
with the way I insist that their petty wrongs,
are right ways to go.
I try to lead by example - by failing.
Friends let me off easy,
They quietly
cleanup all the odd bits and pieces
that I could not hammer together.
That list keeps getting longer.
If someone asked me if I were crazy I’d say yes.
And if they asked me why did I think so, I’d say
“because I feel sorry for non existing characters and toothbrushes.
Is that enough or should I continue ?”
Enough.
Funny thing about that word,
it’s like if it didn’t exist for them.
They never have enough.
They’re like vampires.
Never suck out all your blood,
just leave you in agony.
Conscious, with your hungry eyes wide open,
fully aware that they have taken all you had,
found every dark secret, every little glimpse of happiness you tried to protect.
Now you’re not crazy anymore, now you’re just a wrack.
And when your loud death rattle will fall silent,
when your soul will leave your empty, drugged body,
they’ll proudly say you’re cured.
Sitting in a coffee shop,
slatted chair back creaking as she chews
on the knock-knock joke of a long ago
eating popsicle.
It’s a hot day.
She says that before the modern
toothbrush, people brushed teeth with boar’s hair brushes,
& before that they chewed on sticks,
& before that even they chewed on fennel stalks
to freshen their breath.
“& before that?” I asked.
Apparently, before that people didn’t eat bread,
or fill their stomachs with refined sugar.
Why she knows the history of toothbrushes
I may never know. Perhaps she wanted
an explanation for why she chewed so long
on knock-knock jokes.
Who’s there?