I often find that, hour after hour,
I can't overcome my inertial power
and get into the shower.
If I smell bad, and the doorbell should ring,
oh, the embarrassment that would bring,
but, under the nozzle, I could sing.
So, finally, I remove my clothes,
and jump in, not to offend some person's nose,
and come out smelling like a rose.
I confidentially tell you this -
my idea of domestic bliss
is under the hot water's steamy hiss.
As I lather up a soapy slime,
I lose all track of time
and begin to rhyme.
Indeed, it's in this watery place,
my mind wanders, losing track of space,
as, my poetic muse, I embrace,
My best poems are penned in this wet womb.
Verses born in my head, spring, full bloom.
This one was written in my living room.
I cannot remember the exact day
Though it wasn't that long ago to note
When I get home to tighten up my say
Like I wouldn't have said that rote
But I haven't been able to change it
Slippery airstream brings it without permit
Teach my tongue
Not always the usual song
When unseen is not able
Let hearty praises be stable
Story may not win hearts
Words are very core to arts
What inspirations sought
Define what minds fought
But often, muses are ÀBÍKÚ
Though words remain àìkú
Teach my words ever young
To never be old unsung
When light heals quickly, time
Let darkness dare its worth to the prime
Hero don't just fight
To show his might
But for a dream
Beyond self-esteem
To redeem his call
Even it takes him to fall
Teach my nozzle
Firing and causal
To view in smell
The aroma heaven shell
A newborn; I a newborn
Everyday's cool wordsbourne
Whose stories are often reared
In blissful nature's style sneered
For body to feed into mind for soul
Allowing new character be made whole
Teach me to use
Not only to deduce
By tongue to also pronounce
And authoritatively do denounce
I do unconsciously stay
Conscious my own way
Whenever I sneeze amidst people
I wish I am alone in the steeple
One thing is been yet to be done
Another is of people's lively fun
That possibly arise
When intent despise
Nature's staged plainly quiet notion
Which sets legs in continuous motion
Call in its droplet
To be a part of it
Defined time is near
Not near but we fear
On faith to ascertainly lean back
Even though invisible is the black
Let it not just go
It has been long so
Let's make a bit more wide splash
Before flesh turns to destined ash
Truly, we know how sweet is dew
But we shouldn't mind to start anew
To sleep not
But fight hot
Not always at ease
Appealing appease
What battle of life is ever won in such?
Without feeling the best cold cry touch
My nozzle is a double barrel
Holding enough muses like Jarrel
Fighting inking clues raw
To silent possible arising time war
The limericks that herein you meet
Were tested for pressure and heat.
Confirmed for all nozzles,
And yet, if one wozzles,
Return, if you kept the receipt.
First, you see the tip
Next, the nozzle of the lead
Then, tube of an ink.
Down by the pond,
you know, the one behind the bare hedgerow,
a pond dug out as a feature,
for condominiums to surround,
as if they just had to have,
a basic single nozzle fountain,
and an ornamental plastic swan
just to off-set the isolation
and disassociation
that comes with
the last urban hold-out
you will ever own or know.
OBSCURE LIFE CHARACTERS
Hero
Your terror is palid..
fear is your greatest gesture!
Soldier
your loneliness
is greater than death...
smaller than an enigma,
a data..!
COMMANDED
The bigger the well
from the horror,
more exposed to
subordinate...
THIEF
eternal processor
of other people's gestures..
overeacting prophylaxis
poorly provided,
usurper of
compromising crumbs,,,
NOZZLE
verbose word
among deaf...
brilliant gesticulator
among blinds...!
First, the lead,
Next, the nozzle,
Then, the tube of an ink.
How I miss Spring with showers supreme
rainy weather kept everything green
But now it's June in the summer heat
have to water or it's your garden's defeat
An early heatwave it is blazing hot
everything gets scorched especially in a pot
so watering each morning never stops
thirsty plants need watering a lot
With a garden hose and nozzle galore
I water and spray and water some more
Over a hundred the temperature rise
how much of the poor garden survive
I sat in my chair and aim the nozzle clear
watering watering everywhere
The shower setting when I am near
the jet, full, center for way over there
A soaker used if I need a break
the cone is playful the angle great
Mist for my face to keep cool
flat for spraying as the leaves drool
Use jet setting to spray away
birdbath's dirty water from birdies play
then fill it high to the top
holding spray down when full stop
I like to water it's almost like play
with my nozzle so many ways to spray
The garden remains green and the birdies sing
pretty flowers, fruits and veggies it brings.
~ Reveille ~
Put a little sugar in my shower nozzle
Pour hot coffee on my towel
If I ever finally wake up
Will I ever howl ...
With my socks completely inside out
and my shirt half-buttoned wrong
Comes crashing the percussion of
the morning's first loud gong ...
that summons me to breakfast
cold tuna, day-old cheese
I wash it down with Listerine
How can I go wrong ...
And now it's time for morning prayers
which I mumble in Swahili
Then back I go right up the stairs
Another round of sleep ~ ideally
Flight by Terence Cummings-Smith,
I ride the path ballistic,
in a screaming, scorching arc.
From perigee in flaming hell
to apogee far beyond Arcturus.
Neutrons and tachyons spray,
from magnetic nozzles.
Through burning twisting vortex,
of syncopated space and time.
Reality compresses into pinpoint ultraviolet before,
Mote infrared behind.
My very thoughts lingering,
most far behind.
Time's march freezes,
rolls retrograde.
Nuclei dance, atomically chattering,
Quarks trance.
And I'm there.
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
Something I’m sure is wrong with Tom,
His laughter crushing like burst bomb:
Men having to bear Cruel Chapter
And wounds keep licking long after…
Tom does the fullest delight find
In gushing blood that might one blind,
Clinching absurd satisfaction
From mischief by Hard-Skinned Faction.
I had this guess from Tom’s answer,
With words suddenly a dancer:
When shredded are combatants’ clothes,
“If the Torn Things Tom like or loathes?”
A case of The Wrong Obsession
Forward pushing like A Procession…
Tom I hate like A Recession:
A Fruitless Plenary Session…
Really, it had been a puzzle
Why Tom excuses The Nozzle.
Intend to kill yourself from
inside...?
cultivate
ignorance
allow time to
arrogance ...
Wanna be
adult
nozzle
and demented ...?
put silent
the child
who lives in you
... abort it ...!
The chaotic sounds of
a conflicted emerging thought
pushed and pulled
Impending anguish is wrought
Words jigsaw a
jagged puzzle
Likened a bursting hose with
A busted nozzle
Firing out in a rushed frenzy
No time for sorting beginning from ending
Hoping to re-ingest
as it spews out a flurried mess
Too late as it flows past cheeks
Knowing instantly the havoc it reeks ...
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