Lubricating Poems | Examples

the door of uncertainty

seemingly undeniable certitude and conviction
handle hinges slats panels lock and key
maybe a cat flap for escape towards illusions

a trap door of revolving gates
sometimes we are framed by cemented beliefs
of what remains perspective and opinion

seeking for external validations
we fail to search for what is inside
stay on the threshold of immobility

minds need lubricating agents 
rust prevention or sometimes a chisel
to determine what certainty is

a conundrum delusion of impermanence
which steals happiness and adventure
of open-minded investigation

there are moments however
when we can crawl out of a window
or simply break through walls 

self-made incarceration is futile
and the chains shackling us
are the ones we crafted ourselves

Great Poetry

How does one define
great poetry? The best
rhyme in time? A musical
phrase that stays, reverberates
within the catacombs of a Devotee's
celestial sign, lubricating his every thought
as a priest's wine, sipping while he prays, 
saturating his blood with the effervescence
of an all loving, redeeming deity; who knows 
well His creation's need for affirmation, the urge 
to write; so invented He, neat words in sympathy 
to both inspire and delight – 
                                      Or is great poetry 
more antithetical?~ no conscious effort 
to unseal, for never prescriptively hermetical – 
a sacrilege if sanitized like something 
contrived for medically medical; enters the lull 
like a masked virus in the night, awakening soundly
sleeping hands to their inherent flight~ a light
clicked on to feverishly, tappingly, divinely compose; 
such all powerful driving might, pouring
out of every orifice I suppose: from one's mind,
eyes, lips, punctuating backside and
imperfect often grossly ventilating nose....

Eye Gunk

Most annoying thing the body produces
Is eye gunk to me it's downright useless
But helps when we cry
Lubricating the eyes
Aren't we due for a 10,000 mile service

Eek - a Squeak

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
I must protect my trunk
I’d give that squeaker such a clump
If I were grown and drunk

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
It gave me such a scare
Those tiny squeakers make me meek
Is there one under there

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
I quickly raised my feet
I did not dare to take a peek
Or beat a quick retreat

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
It’s messing with my brain
Every time I move a bit
It seems to squeak again

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
And now I need my dad
He rushed out when he heard the squeak 
The squeaking made him mad

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
And now it’s squeaking faster
My seat moved when I moved my feet
For each leg has a caster

I heard a squeak beneath my seat
It made my dad’s blood boil
But now he’s back and in his trunk
Is lubricating oil

Waking Up To One Self

The sum total of well being and self-hypnosis’s potential,
the bull eye and perfect timing existential.
The ball players reference to space and momentums reach,
or the weakest link of efficiency in breach.
Gifts and wrath given in time to individual charisma,
maturity of spiritual growth and wisdom.
The secrets of success by strength of conviction,
a seeming death and birth of soul in its friction.
When lack of patience starves virtue to death,
while wondering dreams holding all breath.
He who is the master of his own domain,
is the ruler of destinies and very sane.
Repressed faith is to suppress divine impulse,
spirits tangible and formless temple.
By wishing means and its breaking goal,
cosmic alarm clock and season of soul.
Reverse psychology and lubricating ignorance,
the self by self fabricated circumstance.
Not by self-realization that one realize God,
it is by God-realization to realize in oneself the odd.

Musicale Night

Closing my eyes I lie;
My breath exhales in a sigh;
The music in my ears,
Lubricating my cerebral gears;
My head sinks into the pillow,
Deep into limbo I wallow
Free of the demanding reality
Sucked into a singularity-
Where no cogitation shall prevail;
Peace sans ail.
Lost in the words, in the voice;
Tumbling amid blues and joys,
Falling, falling down the rhyme
For a infinitesimal infinity of time.

My Beloved Teachers

The greeter-teacher,
the smirkier at the door.
I feel his gimlet eyes at my back
and though it is 5o years later
and his mouth is now plugged with dirt
his leer can be traced
in the brown water stains
of mottled walls.

A female slave-unit whose name was ‘Miss’
I cannot recall her ever speaking to a child directly,
only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator
a third level teacher who spat into her ear
as if sexually lubricating her fears.

I am put right by a serial wrongdoer.
A second tier maniac with a lust for rhetoric.
His large hands flay like wind-sails, they
slap books and heads.

On, on, 
through narrowing corridors and echoing rooms
counting sadists, ticking off
a long mental list of ghouls
all dead and gone
except for the abusive drills.

One dead grinning fish-head
even opens a door for me
as I leave forever.

Warm Tears and Cold Beers

They all said when you left
It would take a few years 
And some time for me to move on from here 
But this guy won’t soon forget 
All the good times that we had 
Yeah those days of ease and memories I hold dear

Yeah, I tried to figure it out
While lubricating a lot of fear 
Yeah, the whiskey kept things inside of me
But the memories clear
In time I began to see
A future where I needed to be
And all it took was some warm tears
And a few cold beers

 You know they all were right
I was holding on too tight 
I thought I was fearin’ but I was just here-and all-alone
But with help from old man time
And some tequila, cold beer and limes
I took over the talkin’ to do some walkin’ 
On my own

Yeah, I tried to figure it out
While lubricating a lot of fear 
Yeah, the whiskey kept things inside of me
But the memories clear
In time I began to see
A future where I needed to be
And all it took was some warm tears
And a few cold beers

These days I’m doin’ just fine 
I still toast you with Tecate and lime
Cause in all these years
With just a few tears
I still hold you dear

And all it took was some warm tears
And a few cold beers

Patina

smoothness
imbued with character
his essence
imbedded deeply
in every crevice
sweet oils
of everyday labor
lubricating
its monotony
burnishing
the hard patina
of life


©6/29/2018

for Patina Poetry Contest

Julie the Midnight Queen

Every night, the same damned chain
After the show she is looking for some love
An unwebed girl with innocent eyes
A princess with a craving lubricating between her legs
Voluptuous raven-haired beauty in need of romance
Sentencing out honest human emotions
Swaying on her dark stage
Swallowed up by the invitation
Sending you with a burning smile
Sweet little darling Julie looking for her Romeo
Lewd thoughts with a perverted appetite
In a black light room racking her desire with the delight of flesh
Succumbing to the glee
Going into convolutions releasing her love nector
Exclaiming her heartfelt screams
She feels fervent as you kiss her neck
Lick down on her ornament
Warm sweat dripping down her caramel skin
Her flushed flesh with blush
An orgasmic sensation on leaves her flustered
Happy to please Julie the midnight queen

A Rainy Day Phantasmagoria

Translucent droplets descending aimlessly

Thudding to the earth, exploding into fluidity 

Transcending in sync with any  exterior element


Condensing intensity with each thunderous blow

Caressing the atmosphere with friction intensifying heat 

All the while, lubricating the possibilities of limitless evolution



Plush carpet of primitive sod
Seducing the blades of foliage budding with comers 
Embrace the earth in a manner of plow and grace

Let Briar patches catch the droplets of reflective charges
Let us flush our cheeks in the breeze of calm
As we knead our nails into agil land
We perspire in the moistness of the dew of creation



The earth is its own composition 
And we as entities must coincide
Because Vitality exist only within the rawness of us all

Reverie Saturday In the Arms of Mother Nature

Reverie
Saturday in the arms of Mother Nature

That state – in between – just before one leaves consciousness
in order to cross the threshold into that world of the subconscious
That place between semi wakefulness and the land of dreams
where life is surrealistically richer, deeper than reality
and clearer than the images one sees in the world of dreams.
In this fantastic, altered state of being, I felt, I touched
a beautiful pink where all life begins, and begins !
My lips, my tongue, my fingers tips sailed across a body
of pure water, caressing every atom, every epithelio
of life, stroking your soul from head to your little toe
and back to the world of pink, where sweet lips met mine,
lubricating my tongue in the most passionate French kiss
your motherhood has or will ever have known !
My state of reverie !, my dream, but not your reality.
The reverie of my Saturday, I’d love to make your reality !

B. J. “A” 2
February 18th 2007

In Foreign Home Ship

The meaning of Christmas, is this I see
This I knew not, yet this I blaze to meet
This I swim and swing in beat
Lubricating on its wind and heat.

The Christmas I knew, the Christmas I remember
Dwells in those days gone but tender
I remember slaughtering a goat or even a sheep
Then roasting the meat and warming its blood
I remember eating the meat in sensational comfort of traditional beer
Then blessing the occasion more, with fermented milk on guards.

I remember those days with love and urge
Needing them more: the exuberance moments of touch
But in turn I curiously wait to see more
More of winter’s heat in the embrace of Christmas, 
I await to taste the intimate taste of their beer........


written in 2006

One Last Tear

It looks like a tidal wave if looked under a microscope

Its valid only for the user the manual says

Salt is the antiseptic that prevents infections

It didn't prevent you

You my last tear and the salt

Did the wife of Lot feel her last tear

When I sleep the tears are still made

Washing and lubricating my eyes

Our love should have been washed

The words twirled and cleaned and rinsed

They would come out fresh and the kindness

Instead the last tear waits silently

It won't be recycled

One last tear waits with hope in the hamper

Reverie

Reverie
Could this be my destiny ?

Saturday in my porcelain womb,
Enfolded in the arms of Mother Nature’s embryonic fluid.

That state - in-between – just before one leaves
consciousness in order to arrive , into the subconscious.
That place between wakefulness and the land of dreams
where life is surrealistically sharper, deeper then reality
and clearer then that of images, in the world of dreams.
In this fantastic state of being, I felt and I touched 
a beautiful world of pink, where life begins, and begins!
My lips, my tongue, my finger tips sailed across your body.
They caressed every atom of your being – stroked your soul
from your head to your little toe, and back to the pink,
where your sweet lips met mine, lubricating my tongue
with delicious honey, in the most passionate, French kissing
your motherhood has ever, will ever know – my dream, not yours.
The reverie of my Saturday, I would love to make your reality.

  B. J. “A” 2
February 18th 2007

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