Long Tweezers Poems
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Morning
Having sighed a great sigh
He perused all his tools
From the mainsprings and tweezers
To the wheels and the jewels.
He removed the large case latch
From the pocket watch cover
To survey all the insides
As he would any other.
He wasn't familiar
With a watch of that kind
And confused why the workings
Ran two days behind.
He adjusted his loupe lens
And then gasped at least twice
At the solid gold workings
Inside the device.
Noon
He rang up the owner
Who was due to arrive
At the shop to collect it
At twelve twenty-five.
"OK I will fix it
In time for your date
But as it's important
I'm upping my rate."
The owner grew worried
And made it quite clear
By accepting the offer
Amid cries of "Oh Dear!"
The watchmaker laughed
As he put the phone down.
He could now spend the extra
That night in the town.
Night
Once inside of The Tabard
He ignored his bad health
And turned to his drinking
To help pardon himself.
Having switched all the gold
In the watch for cheap tack
He swapped some for whisky
With a man in the back.
On his way home he stumbled
Through the storm and the wind
Tripping over a cat
Who'd appeared and just grinned.
Later That Night
Slumped under a tree
And left gasping for air
The watchmaker's own time
Stopped right then and there.
it’s 12 again
i find my bare arms pressed up against the hard mirror/shower door
it lives a double life
my breath fogs up the glass
it keeps me warm
razor-like metal dig into my fingers as i grip the tweezers
it’s ironic how something so sharp can bring such comfort.
i stare at the inky dot right above the thicket of hair i call my eyebrow
only visible to the scrutinizing eye inches away
the painted lady on the surface of that unyielding metal smiles at me
i do not notice.
her unforgiving claws disguised as the honed tweezer tips stab into the flesh surrounding that jet-black dot
doing all she can to extract the imperfection
and when she finally succeeds
and the uprooted dot reveals its true identity as a helpless strand of hair
whose only crime was its misfortunate growth
i feel no remorse — rather, relief —
only the twinge of pain
and another lasting scarlet scab
right above my eyebrow
reminds me of the wave of shame soon to come
i soon forget
as i spot another dot
desiring to reignite my ritual of comfort.
HOCUS BOGUS, BOGUS POCUS!
A hex on the dryers of you who owe us
A pox on your socks never to be found
Unwound and pulled down underground
I voodoo better than you do, and you'll rue
The day you walked my way because I knew
If I'm toil and trouble, you're definitely double
So bubble bubble grow no more than stubble
It might seem weird as something feared
But I know you've always wanted a beard!
You think I'm too lily livered to deliver?
Just wait until I conjure... A WOODEN SLIVER
Didn't think this is something you'd fear?
You'll think twice when near tweezers disappear!
Such sorcery the likes you've never seen
An enchantress so mean there's never been
My final vengeance enclosed in this vile
You cry and I smile, I fly while you're in a pile
A potion with eye of storm and tongue of twist
And whatever else is on my list, with a flick of the wrist
I cast a spell you cannot quell that’s straight from hell
You’ll swell as you yell in pain as you fell
Unable to imagine such a fate is more than fable
As your pinky toe catches the corner of a coffee table!
MWA HA HA HA HA HA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LOOKING FOR HOME
a magnifying glass spotted a WE little woods
in a tiny village with the wonder of memories
a crayfish creek with human legs splashing
a stone wall to balance on a sandbox donut
a swing set put together with tweezers and
precision minute tears and laughter wings
a minuscule trunk to yell down from to hang
a rope and seat a peace sign scrawled on
a santa-size mailbox filled to the brim with
bills, cards, letters, and no dope because that
would be illegal and the government truck
might show up to take you away HA HA records
with fingerprints, etchings, scratches, speeds
i’m dizzy spinning around and around landing
on tomorrow where the records have shrunk
and stay entombed in plastic cases or players
and i am gulliver the giant creating havoc on
life’s travels, skipping ahead, practically losing
my head like goliath leaving small problems
behind dragging my feet like a bag of christmas
toys unable to open not allowed to peek NO
FAIR I stomp my heels wanting my way I THOUGHT
big people tall as trees always got their way and
my giant parents now I level with me clap
their hands in cheers and victory forgetting the fog
that encircles their knees in a tiny toon town
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
Your past should be a reminder,
Of how far you have come.
Your past should be the key to the present,
Not to a ball and chain.
Your past should be a line in the sand,
That you never step back over.
Your past should be a record of past mistakes,
Not re-visited.
Your past should come with a map,
To buried treasure,
Not a bowl of rotten fruit.
Your past should spit you out,
Not suck you in.
Your past should leave you with a pair of Tweezers,
To pull out those annoying thorns in your side.
Not a microscope to pick out the nits.
Your past should send out some echoes of laughter,
Not waves of pain and regret.
Your past should be all present and accounted for,
So, you can stride confidently into a brighter future.
With my girlfriend in tip top condition
To film sex scenes for late television
She got sick in bed
So I went instead
And was heckled with spiteful derision
Well their laughter had made me feel silly
As I stood there butt naked and chilly
They said, “Get a hair dryer,
Or an electric fire,
For you sure need to warm up that willy.”
The director called three naked geezers
Who he said were real audience pleasers
Then he looked at my lot
And said, “Let’s get this shot,
With my new close up lens… and some tweezers.”
Grabbed a sock and ran home in the nuddy
And I tripped in a field, wet and cruddy
But I’d slipped on the sock
So my girl got a shock
When just one bit of me wasn’t muddy
*
That’s my self respect gone for a burton…
Then the morning sun shone through my curtain
I awoke in my bed
“Only dreaming,” I said
But I took a quick peek to be certain
‘ex post facto’ it is facile to see the human reality of matter
one does not need artificial intelligence to feel sorrow and joy
a life not bravely examined is not worth living
and therefore she dissected her innermost self
took scalpel and reason but failed to exhume
what matters most when cut through the chase
inspected valves chambers and flow of emotion
‘be kind to yourself’ but at first the knife was rather too blunt
double edged as well and she needed tweezers and forceps
‘where is the handle because I must get a firm grip
wrap a bandage around my soul and tear into pain’
a psychiatry bible rested uncomfortably aside an atlas
four chambers no doubt be it water fire air and earth
compassion kindness love and no doubt depression
formalin tested her nostrils with the corpse unsurprisingly dead
broken arrows at the core and faded names inscribed in dry blood
the life support machine had groaned under pressure
injection and years on the couch but nothing but stasis
hemolytic infusions adrenaline cardio version exhaustion
until she decided to explore what mattered the most
breathing barely more than sufficient she nearly arrested
a heart transplant was not for faint hearted patient’s emotions
but when she got going there was no going back in her theatre
mental surgery required passion courage and centre
the eye of an eagle and the skill to let go and recover
‘pioneering is quite fun’ she had to admit and proceeded
discovered that she was more than a cultural artefact
but living proof of suppression and uneasy surrender
what she learnt to love best in the end was her dark depression
because this nasty compassion opened her eyes and her heart
5th August 2020
See we know about traditional old skool
gangster new school and mumble
well I’m the additional
mister medicinal
brain cells missing
brain fail consistent
I’ll stand here and diss you all
don’t get me fishing fool
I didn’t grow up on a council estate
an idiot losing count of mistakes
with fists thrown in hate at mates
that hip girate away lay my babe no lady
lately grating cheese placed in the freezer
I don't know that meaning either.
I tell big munters I ain’t really a geezer
and joke I once choked on a Malteser.
no Jesus please unless it’s Christmas or Easter.
I'm not gona eat a pineapple pizza a meat I'll eat easier
but picking pineapple pieces placed is waste unpleasing
each to their own as their own they teach
from fresh green grass to sweaty as on the beach
dream out of reach move over move closer seek
gangstas can be geeks
aint set change step reset no fret repeat geeze
no teasers hair pulled by tweezers
uprooted remove streets find uses
but choose the choice you've got used to commit
convict and glue stick useless urban true
as for me always me and only me how I be
cus I'm happy as different unique and genuine
crown me king as I separate from the crowd
I'm proud I'm me un-scouted lout, nah not now ,
what's that about, when talent drought no go
Medicinal Champagne am I bow bow
that’s the MC I please needs
it ain’t musical it’s a free read
The Two-Cent Daffodil
My Nana Pat, with a careful hand and eye,
Would've loved this stamp, a piece of sky.
Two daffodils, sun-kissed and so bright,
Held in a square of soft, creamy light.
I can picture her now, with her albums open wide,
A small world of paper and ink by her side.
With tweezers so gentle, she'd settle each one,
A small victory savored beneath the afternoon sun.
This two-cent flower, a promise of spring,
Was the sort of small treasure she loved to bring
Into her collection, a record of place,
Each stamp a new story, a moment of grace.
And though she is gone, I can still see her smile,
In this tiny landscape, worth more than a while.
For this isn't just postage, but memory's art,
A daffodil blooming in a grandmother's heart.
Four Short Poems for the Apocalypse
Poem #1 – “Reality Bites”
Feeling so hopeless.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I can feel it, but I don’t know quite where.
Reality bites.
Feeling so awkward and sad.
I knew it was bound to happen.
But still,
I can’t get it out of my mind.
The last time I saw her,
There in that stuffy smelly room,
She was shooing the demons away.
It is true.
The gods make those who are about to die
As mad as gadflies
Without blood to suck.
Reality bites.
Feeling so empty.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I thanked the stars the night she died.
Poem #2 – “Part Biscuit Part Bone”
I shiver when I think about it.
Getting’ up at four in the morning to walk six miles.
There is only one fool who would do such a thing.
My brain is sometimes cracked like my sidewalk.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
But when I walk in the darkness
The entire world is mine.
I am the only one alive
And I salute the ghosts in the shadows.
They want my soul
And I want their ethereal essences.
I shiver when I think about it.
Maybe death is like a walk at four.
There is only one fool who would think that.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
Poem #3 – “Baked Babylon”
Squeezing the forceps, handlessly
Like a pair of tweezers with no grip.
I groan and suffer alone.
Like Grover Cleveland back in 1892
When his cancerous jaw was dug into
By mustached doctors wearing pink carnations,
Digging and gouging and tugging
Like some gravedigger looking for soft earth.
Baked Babylon is my grease.
Let it smoke and oilize.
I want death for myself, no one else.
One billion children do not deserve the incineration.
Poem #4 – “Why Am I Thinking?”
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I stink?
Is it because I’m stuck breathing?
Why am I dying?
Is it because life is a game with no winners?
Is it because I seek pleasure in a world of pain?
Why am I crying?
is it because life is so futile?
Is it because death is the best part?
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I can’t help it?
Can’t help stopping the inevitable?
Oh death!
You wait for me over there,
Like a forlorn lover,
Behind shaded curtains in the night.