If love were 'dark matter'
it would be the size
of a small kidney stone.
Hate is
an intestinal tapeworm
that gnaws at our vitals,
though most folks
remain unsure just what 'vitals' are.
The human brain
does not write poetry,
it merely crouches inside one ear,
while shouting into the other.
Poetry abides at the center
of an ever-expanding constellation
deep within the pineal gland -
that physical presence
manipulates, as many as
ten fingertips or toes
plus, a sloshed Calliope
swinging back and forth,
as she clings precariously
to chandelier-like Adam's apple.
Lips learn to think for themselves,
with the help of undocumented
angels.
Thus, naturally
organically produced poetry
can easily be manifest
while a nose dips deep
into a foaming glass of beer.
If I was an owl
I would swallow my prey whole
Letting them enjoy the entire trip
Down my gullet into my stomach
Being gentle with them as they sloshed through my juices
Not crushing them in a mean way like a python
If I was an owl
He trundled his way up the three heavy steps
His mop of hair searching every direction
In the middle of the stage a brash spotlight
shone on a large drum kit
Behind a curtain dangled over a hand painted sign
The burgundy curtains partially
covering the letters making it look like alent sho
The boy now seated behind the kit dwarfed by its side.
He adjusted his seat slightly, closed his eyes and
took a breath
The crowds murmurs abruptly cut by some drunks
sloshed repartee -Hey.kid you, a belch breaking his sentence-forgot your sticks
With a tiiter of some of the onlookers
The young boy slowly opened his eyes
A tear slowly rolled down his pale cheeks
Swaying from his chin for a moment
before falling
It meandered along the cymbal's it’s tremor almost melodically before snapping upon the snare
Each tear falling in perfect formation
No beat missed a methodical beat
One after another
The silence of the audience
mesmerised by his music
He played with such sadness
The tears of those watching only adding to his symphony
at the edge of the cliff,
she stood,
determined…….
eyes limpid pools of sadness
hair wind swept.
flawed….
damaged?
the swirling enormity below
inviting….!
nested in her own ignorance,
never knowing there’s poison,
in the sting of bees,
as dripping honey
in their combs.
in the heat waves of life
consumed without flame
yes, an escape ineluctable!
perhaps more to cover a secret…
SWISH….!
the water below parted noisily,
sloshed up… but the tug was fierce.
down, down….
she slid,
into the silver chambers
to be garlanded by mermaids!
Rhino baby bubbles up the sink in a flash
He is showing his goods, and he makes an incredible splash!
This is a whine sloshed out by my roommate, Leroy Flash.
Who is a bit scared of the baby; his teeth all a’gnash!
I was born in a landlocked getaway town
Where all the colors were black, gray, or brown.
Jobs at the steel mill were ratcheting down.
It was not in my future to stay.
So, I took a long walk off a very short pier,
An unschooled, untraveled recruit buccaneer
On a quest to cross Neptune’s vast salty frontier.
Hopped a slow boat to China one day.
Underway on the Crescent City, it seemed
The ocean was wider than I’d ever dreamed.
A ship load of sinners, our souls unredeemed
Steaming west toward whatever there was.
Keelung told Hong Kong to call Singapore.
Subic Bay badgered Mombasa for more.
Sea legs, as always unsteady ashore,
Even more so with liquor and drugs.
Bilge water sloshed in the depths of the hold.
The mizzen mast learned what the typhoon foretold.
I was sea duty tempered and Shell Back enrolled;
Wasn’t nothing but maritime norm.
I was born in a hard luck blue collar town.
Half the way broken and half the way down.
But time gifts its renaissance scepter and crown
To a jack tar who’s weathered the storm.
After all, life is but a twisted tale,
Of trying blue; to weigh us, if model.
To find happy rest in all we travail...
Winnings, everyone continually tail,
Unleash cheats and deceits of sh*ts coddle...
After all, life is but a twisted tale!
Satisfaction has stolen away scale,
That manoeuvres peace at achievement's jail,
To find happy rest in all we travail.
Then the world becomes completely new ale,
That subjects sloshed sanity to waddle...
After all, life is but a twisted tale!
Time moves fast unlike dream's series avail,
Its fulfilling bail to rescue Abel.
After all, life is but a twisted tale!
How dire Cain reckons not blood, but impale
His brother; blackmail his death, wroth unveil.
After all, life is but a twisted tale,
To find happy rest in all we travail.
Hardly venture into such verse.
In her bedroom, she wrote her curse.
She despised bright pupils at Yale.
If water drops could tell their tale.
She went on long walks in the drought.
They urged her to blend in and flout.
In gray rain, she went past wan shale.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Had they fed the felled holy trees?
Her thongs sloshed in a thoughtful breeze.
Gather, freeze, pour down wet and hail.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Where had those lovely old dribs been?
which dropped sunk ships and saved Tholepin.
She found longing despite the hail.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Written: August 09, 2022
A Kyrielle about Water Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Kim Rodrigues
Checked by HMS.COM
16 Lines 8syllables each/ 4 Stanzas.
Here lies the last of the brood
Though always sloshed, never rude
Fame and fortune eluded him
So, he filled himself up to the brim
Always there when we would call
He died from drinking alcohol.
written February 26, 2022
The air was pure and bright. A sea-salt tingle
hovered in an easygoing offshore breeze.
In mesmerising rhythm, wavelets sloshed
and swished along the timeworn jetty wall.
The bay was sparkling in the morning light
as early gannets hungrily patrolled
their crystal-clear domain.Slight movement now
within the overnighting boats, safe moored,
serenely sheltered at the break of day.
A swan flotilla, now near fully grown
and all in a row, in silence glided by,
exploring weed and tidal offerings
under a careful matriarchal eye.
The year was moving on, the midges gone,
and still the little ferry ploughed its course
across the bay, its passengers intent
on finding peace and personal content.
The cafe at the pier, with clinking cups,
was heralding the day, with early starters,
few in number now. The summer throng
dispersed and homeward bound, to feed
on memories. For some, like me,
a fitting epitaph might be
“He lived his life in thoughts of Arran “.
I float through the air, amazed at how cool I am feeling
Landing on the top of an oak. She lets me slide through her trees.
I ooze under a couple of ants, who give me barely a glance.
I am from heaven, I want to say, but that might be arrogant.
So I keep oozing, without a word, silent, and steady.
Another raindrop splashes on my face. What the heck!
Now I do not know where I end and she begins. She smirks and laughs.
If there is one thing I do not like it is ….
Bam! We are assaulted with ten more raindrops.
What the heck! I had no idea this could happen.
CRACK! Zeus is driving a chariot through the sky apparently.
The sky gets dark. I am sloshed down the tree, landing on the ground.
Still unsure whether I am still me, or just a part of them.
I am Delaware, another raindrop tells me. She asks what has happened.
I have no idea. Even if I knew in another incarnation, I do not have words now.
I am a cold, wet, unhappy raindrop, oozing into a slithery mud puddle.
A fat ugly worm begins rolling into me. Making my day even less perfect.
A golden halo crested jagged peaks,
It’s kiss of morning splendour
Tasted like a Valley-fruit cocktail;
Yellow-orange fire rising over the glass,
And, full to the brim, sloshed streaks
Down the mountains. Citrus venture
Splashed the spruce and the soft shale
With orange juice hues along the mountain pass.
Morning breathed a soft sigh,
Just enough to raise the hair on
My arms. Standing over Heaven, its gates
Of carven oak and sharp pine musk;
El Dorado is the majesty of the sky.
A golden city reflected upon
The ground which I stand, the lakes
And the streams in a land of dusk.
Golden leaf, silver spoon, still distraught
Are those that don’t realize beauty cannot be bought.
No, no
It’s not any
Premature celebration,
But just some fun,
When everyone’s so sick
Of this pandemic.
So, ‘What are the cheers for?’
You may rightly ask.
But then, isn’t it a task
To stand in such
Disciplined way-
Braving not only the heat,
But also freak
Thunderstorms of May
Oh yes, I’m talking of
India’s frontline warriors
Sloshed and soggy
Saving the ‘tottering’ economy
After all, government's empty coffers
Have to be replenished
And, they must buy their bottle
Before the stocks get finished
In this war
Let help pour
From every ‘quarter’
Every ‘pint'
I hope
You get the hint
It’s time to
Come out ‘all mouths reeking'
Some sober, some tipsy, some puking
It’s this fighting ‘spirit’
Which will eventually overcome Covid
Hence, can we please
Stop our jeers
And instead
Raise a toast
To all the tipplers out there-
‘Three Cheers'.
Many dry seasons have passed since his last drink
John retrieved himself from a slow deadly brink
Gone are the wretched times he puked in the sink
But he remembers the vile vomit coloured in pink
Blood and acid flushed away from churning bile
Self-destruction on his slate and a bathroom tile
Right behind the grimy loo basin in projectile style
To which he reached out with a grimaced smile
No one left to blame for addiction’s sloshed trait
It dawned that only he himself could temper his fate
Clean up the besmirched mess from anger and hate
To take responsibility for his reckless calamitous state
Honesty won over deceit and it cut like a sharp knife
But it helped to search for a far more meaningful life
In the process he even found a lover soulmate and wife
She and sobriety saved him to love again and survive
17th February 2020
Nauseous Natasha’s cautious sister Sasha’s posh boss
Josh McIntosh from Osh Kosh
Sloshed through the marshes sporting galoshes
Looking for his lost hoss Ross
By gosh
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