In the folly of the posh
They would say golly gosh
Or probably just josh
About the white wash
Come out with some tosh
An off their trolley volley
As on the poor they nosh
Already under their cloche
But still they just kibosh
Plunder as migrants squash
Cast asunder by their cosh
AI blunder we cannot quash
Thunder of the slop & slosh
It's sh*t in the pit of mosh
But it is all about the dosh
So bish bash bosh
How can a cloud be made up of paint that doesn’t splatter?
It’s like someone took gross mustard and smeared it to make that hill in the background.
I don’t get how a painting can have a pond like that.
It just looks fish-less, nothing under there.
If I got so mad that I tore this painting in half?
There would be an obvious tear of anger.
Then you savor the energy.
Continue, slosh.
With paint like grated cheese turning liquid.
Everyone knows your paintbrush wasn’t washed enough.
Everyone can hear you grumbling and grimacing that you’re hungry!
The howl of two paintings.
Have you ever let your paintbrush be alive?
I hear canvas holds onto the old grit from your claws.
We wallow in the shallows –
In muck that clings contingent,
and as it sucks us into its depths,
we slosh mud onto each other
How have we sunk so?
Come with me to shore.
We did so aeons before,
and we can do again.
Not even grief visits this place.
Only the soft slosh of my own voice
inside my skull.
The world speaks in neon,
in bills, in news tickers,
but never says my name.
I left pieces of myself
in lovers’ beds,
in rented rooms,
in smoke.
But they never bled for me
like I bled for no one.
Now I sit by the window,
half-blind,
full-heart,
writing poems that disappear
faster than the dust I swallow.
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
yellow duckies slosh
a fishing line rewinding
blue sky’s skipping in the pond
whistles the green frog
a tan boy puppy puddles
small gray cloud joins with splish-splash
If sunrise sat on a dish-
should this be your wish-
hope for golden dough, mellow
spheres of cooked cornmeal
sunk in okra slosh
tomato
skies
Again the well of poetry was dry,
My pail was drawing up no deep inspired
Thought or subject matter. All was dull, tired,
Stale water, no exciting trick to try.
Once more the fountain gave me naught but sigh
And sigh of lukewarm breadth — of old expired
Content, no fresh drop of song so desired.
Blessed muse of music, you heard my dire cry!
Pulling at the cord, hoisting and heaving,
I felt the bucket slosh again—with life!
Patiently, ladling out ideas delayed,
I splashed myself with fresh drink. Relieving
A murky mind, I felt renewed and rife.
And thus of nothingness was something made.
Where the tide licks a sandy beach
a running ripple
thins to wash a ring of rounded pebbles -
there, a muddy ribbon
trickles through brine rinsed trinkets
surged up as a slosh of time
from the oceans depth.
Here be the bones of seahorse dragons,
and the beached and bloated
pods of marine algae,
Fractured mollusk shells splinter,
carapace and claws swell
in a mutual dross,
a trawled-up flotsam
tossed upon
low spin drifting waves.
A sculptured driftwood
expressed into mythic forms
anchors its art where the wind combs.
Sometimes coins, both new and old, surface
to be pocketed once more.
Obscure metallic treasures knuckle
and poke-mark the shoreside
with their unanswered questions.
I walk an ankle-deep dawn light
shipwrecked on my own shores edge.
A seagull's homeless cry
keeps me fishing for new depths.
As my last leaves bid farewell
and crumble under winter's foot,
or await the soggy slosh of spring ~
I shiver, and raise my naked limbs
up toward where young boys climbed
toward Heaven...
So long ago, that now, they wither too.
The sweet sap of my youth
no longer runs,
The osmosis of my roots,
no longer suckles Mother Earth.
An arborist's blades, like the Reaper's scythe
will sever life's ties,
but, weep not at my ends for
now I climb to Heaven's breast
and a sapling grows from whence I came...
(To the tune of “Jingle Bells”)
Dashing through my tasks,
In a cubicle so tight,
I hear the coffee slosh,
Another deadline fight.
Bells from emails ring,
I can’t ignore the sound,
Oh, what fun it is to sprint
Through tasks that come around!
(Chorus)
Single spells, single spells,
Typing all the way!
Oh, what fun it is to pray
For lunch to save the day—HEY!
Single spells, single spells,
Bosses want it fast,
Why did I say I’d stay this late?
This day will never pass!
A week ago today,
I thought I had it done,
But then the boss exclaimed,
“Redo it, just for fun!”
I clenched my teeth and smiled,
(That’s what professionals do),
Then daydreamed of my holiday
And flights to Timbuktu!
(Chorus)
Single spells, single spells,
Typing all the way!
Oh, what fun it is to pray
For lunch to save the day—HEY!
Single spells, single spells,
Deadlines never end,
Guess I’ll sing this little song
Until my sanity bends!
Her mouth is running with the mind of water
A constant barrage of words no one notices
Until the room is flooded with them
I sit on a wet couch, irritated now
How do we stop the flow of words?
I cannot ask her, for she never pauses to listen
Verbs and adverbs hit the floor and flow into the hallway
My shoes slosh as I follow them into the bedroom
Does she ever stop? I ask my father.
Afterall, he is the man who married this mouth.
The mouth that never stops running.
He shrugs, a man with no words.
A man who is not wise enough to run.
Yet.
My dogs drink enough water
To fill up an oversized elephant
To drowned three camels
To sink a battleship
We cannot keep water in their bowls
And they have ten of them
Six inside
Four outside
I wish my dogs had trunks
They could water my flowers
Rescue neighbors from burning houses
I am surprised they do not slosh when they run
My dogs drink enough water
To fill up an oversized elephant
To drowned three camels
To sink a battleship
We cannot keep water in their bowls
And they have ten of them
Six inside
Four outside
I wish my dogs had trunks
They could water my flowers
Rescue neighbors from burning houses
I am surprised they do not slosh when they run
It started with the beeping of my clock.
Sometimes I want to bash that irksome thing.
My dog barked for his food and then a walk.
While walking him, my cell phone went brring brrring.
I passed some school girls chattering away
like chirping birds. Back to my house I went
to feed the cats that mewed without delay.
I grunted next. My bills had gone unsent.
To mail them I zoomed off inside my car.
It rained. Outside my car I had to slosh
through puddles with no boots on. Great! Har har.
I splashed back to my car, and oh my gosh,
someone had whammed into my new car’s door.
I nearly bawled. Not even noon – what more?
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