Receptacles Poems | Examples

Let The Flowers Grow Again

I long for flowers
for their petals and scent
for their hint of passing
in yearn for lament
who has picked them?
who has cut their stems?
to vase them drowned, stone dead
to sprinkle, drift away in a sashay of tide
to drop as garlands 
around bare feet 
wary of the crush of fragrance 

sometimes it rains
in my garden of flowers
that gives and takes
among the stakes and rows of stones
of broken and held promises 
arrayed as receptacles
awaiting the honeybees
their enchanted direction
to string blooms
into insane
garland chains of
forget-me-knots
longing for
flowers long gone
in passing, a long time ago
now just daisies
everlasting
stringing along

Seeding Clouds

We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse, 
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.

But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty 
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent, 
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.

We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed, 
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.

The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation, 
as their burden grew 
with expectation overdue.

At last, the clouds, 
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops. 
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds, 
watered from the clouds above, 
seeded with our love.

only when you sing

.
                    when the glint
                  snap'n 'gainst it's
                           host
                   thoze emeraldz
                  your pretty boast
                  leak'n sweetly up
                          yourn
                    throb'n heart
               out past those moist
                            lips   

                      it's true luv
               not uh word do mine
                      receptacles
                  'side mine dome
                          review
                        
                       'tiz 'nough
                         the leak
                past yourn thought
                        it's sweet
                      each hisssss
                         haaaah

                         darling
              if I could pronounce it
                      you'd think
              that i heard each word

                       i just love
                mine hear you sing

                        kiss me
                     shut me up

Empty Platform

The subway platform is empty,
posters, the occasional bench
a fire extinguisher in a locked box,
over-stuffed trash receptacles,
the usual graffiti.

No people, the strangers you travel with,
all those commuting shadows
that you hurry by -
an absent factor that keeps you
looking over your shoulder.

You hear distant movement and chatter,
of people on other adjacent platforms,
hear the rumble of a train approaching,
Normality is over there.

Here there is a lack of such sounds,
loudly a void shouts through,
an empty bottle of vodka
rolling toward you.

It's not late or early,
yet the emptiness reverberates,
the tunnel whistles,
as air is pushed along it,

but it is the vacancy of footfalls,
that spooks you most,
that and the death rattle of the rails.

Triumph

                  In the depths of despair, 
              where darkness presides,
           a glimmer of light triumphs, 
        where hope softly abides.
    Through trials and tribulations, we find our way,
    Bloodstained, rising from the ashes again,  
      smoke signalling in eyelids rapid blink, 
        processing error under 
          glitch, twitch, tink tink tink.

     Evolving through loves pipe to be cast - 
    formed in a brand-new drink of daylight, 
    ink, 3D printed receptacles of links, 
      cascading style sheets of lovescore, 
        notes, falling upon us to wash our sins away, 
           play, sing forever more, in a brand new way.

Above the Tree Line

Mountains make poor receptacles
for dreams

Oceans are better at that

The elevation reminding of all 
that’s forbidden

Primordial—the higher you climb


(Dreamsleep: December, 2019)

Be the Blessing You Desire

Be the blessing in the way people rejoice
When you bless their day
With compassion and empathy in vivid voice
To wipe away rows of sorrow from their lives every Saturday.

Be the blessing in the way people smile in a mile
Despite the pain that tears their lives
Asunder as misery reigns supreme for a while
Destabilizing the carriage of their marriage with noxious knives.

Be the blessing in the way people face
Challenges that singe and steal their peace
Of mind, rendering them impotent to address
Mundane missions and routines as habitudes of fortitude decrease.

Be the blessing in the way people handle
Queues and dews of obstacles and oracles
Predicting dark days that fondle
The trajectory of restless receptacles to imprison them into cantakerous cubicles.

A Boys Life

April 8th 1972
Means more to me than to most of you

it was 46 years ago on a beautiful morn
In the country of Bratwust Is where I was born

My dad was in the Army and my mom tagged along On the way to the hospital things went all wrong

Their bags were all packed and the all the boxes were checked When a car jumped the median and caused quite a wreck

The car was destroyed, for the Audi they mourned Medics took mom to the hospital and a fat baby boy was born.

The teen years were rough as the young boy grew up Braces and glasses and a terrible haircut

Eventually, he outgrew that mold
And a handsome young man began to unfold

Then from school onto work is where his life lead His dreams of a career began to get fed

Electrons, Receptacles, switches and fuses These were the things, these were his muses

He knew where to go, there was no confusion. Drove downtown and joined the Union

This takes us to today and made my selection.  But it's all better now working as a Union electrician

The Constant Stream

You keep them to yourself, divergences,
Along the way they sprawl, uncounted,
Retaliations barbed, annulling love,
And darling words with tears confounded.

The hollow echoing chambers of the heart,
Receptacles of many well-aimed darts,
As honeyed moments oftentimes turn sour,
Reciprocating love in fits and starts.

Endearments may well fall on stony ground,
As happy days surrender to the moon,
And hard-edged days turn into coldest night
And love's sweet anthems fade and die too soon.

But underlying dark times flows a stream,
A constant certain current of belief.
True love will find a way into the light
And joy replace what once was felt as grief.

Bathroom Graffiti

There was a man who went out late
And tried to rape a .38
He called women "receptacles"
'Til one blew off his testicles.

Among Us

With a white light that nobody saw
she began to walk 
among us.
Watching, listening, observing the flow.

As she saw love she grew brighter
yet still unseen
trod carefully.
A silent advocate, amalgamating a heart.

"I love you", "Darling", "My Sweet",
the beautiful tunes
within fleshy receptacles.
Oh how they sang for her that day.

A temporary visit to gauge the crowds
inconspicuous yet vast
powerful but softly.
Turns and travels in an opposing direction.

It had only been yards, a mere moment
to bear witness
oh how we change.
To hurt and bitter and spite.

With a dark shadow that nobody saw
she began to fall 
beneath us.
Retching, tormented, avoiding the flow.
For the ten thousandth time.

The Mourning Path - St Louis Cemetery No 2

A tattered Calico traverses the crumbling corridor
dissecting a row of dilapidated sacred structures,
each uniquely indistinguishable from the next.

The wind carries an eerie refrain
as it whistles through the splintered stones,
white-washed to harbor their degeneration.

There's a fragrant stench of wilted petals
lying dormant in stagnant waste.
This potpourri of nature's compost
resonates from the marred receptacles
lining this mourning path.

Picket shadows serve no comfort
from the unbearable fervor
as it bakes these palaces of the deceased.

Irreverent voyagers marvel at its spectacle,
congregating within the blighted vestibules,
ignoring the pleas of sacrilege,
all to capture images for their own posterity.

Exit this city of the dead,
allow the mourners their serenity due.
Bestow the departed their wanted peace
and leave them to their gentle rest.

Glioblastoma

Glioblastoma

Glioblastoma - death in disguise
Makes its appearance before we realize
A stealth adversary lurking in the brain
Metastasizes without restrain
A complex enemy
Untrustworthy
Of unknown origin
Emerging from deep within
Deploying its vascular tentacles
Stealing nutrients from the body’s receptacles
Baffling is its behavior
In search of a savior
Chemo radiotherapy with no other choice
Unable to silence its voice
Surgery perhaps
With high risk of relapse
Immunotherapy – the current hope
But still a downward slope
We shall move on
Until it is gone

The Goddess of the Severn

Pulses drown saturated elvers 
As a crescent delivers it's catch
White bellied roaches slap and disperse
Pierced and broken suckers latch
Flushed forearms lock with a match
Bleached fingers curl fiercely
Cartilage and rods attach
Each standard raised taking a liberty

Vectors detonate a verse
Chassis release their clutch
Barbels gulp at a netted hearse
Miniscule painted boulders scratch
Humble timber bows with a screech
Discordant sea gulls sing their liturgy
Their hymns bellowed to receive a batch
A veneration
Before performing their red tipped ritual snickersee

The unbaptised draw a curse
Glossed umber in a ditch
The razorback plows a course
To encumber every stitch
A gullet evacuates an itchy apology
A heretic mutters a retorting blasphemy
Fulminations boom and detach
As cumulonimbi reload their artillery

Skulls stoop in sunless pitch
Anointed mantras convene for mercy
Receptacles are laden and rich
Weighted and blessed by her divinity

Dangit

I swept the floor, but it's dirty again...pretty much what I expected.
The accumulation of dirt and grim is something safe to have projected.
If cleanliness is a thing which one truly desires
Then cleaning is an act that never can expire.
Objects long to air exposed become receptacles of dust disposed.
Dirt of itself does indeed deface, yet everything has it's own place.
Emptiness seeks to fill it's space; cleanliness seems imposed by our human race.
Yet it's kind to the eye, I can't deny: a shiny floor scrubbed soundly with lye.
Reflection glimpsed, a sweaty smile; arms crossed tiredly on broom over tile.
Floor been swept, job now done, I think one deserves a break.
Tools shucked, apron undone, now's the time for leave-taking take.
But while you're gone, worry not, for the floor dirty once again becomes.
So, rest assured, my dear friend, for the job will always need be done.

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