Something Poems

sewing something Sally

sewing something Sally is on the trail of a pin
she saw it yesterday, and can match it with its twin
slides her tape measure out of the way
and yells hip hip hip hip hip hooray

is this how I’ll act if I take up sewing? I wonder.
Sewing something Sally is always full of blunder.
She speaks of pin

you have something to tell me

you have something to tell me
                          before afterglow
because I have a man’s feelings
           you can’t buy it from me
that even

something big and black flew overhead

something big and black flew overhead
we both looked up, the dog and I
wings unlike a butterfly
it flew back up into the sky

a wasp? a wisp? a tiny bat?
I’ll never know, but it was thin
a black dragon fly, a dragon cat?
something with a touch of red.

Something

“Something,” a compound
word, wondering why,
back in the early days,
I enjoyed it so, until
“serendipity” came along.

The “knock-knock,”
“who’s there?” “Surprise!”
The knockout of my voice,
the showering of my dishes,
the blending of daiquiris
and splendiferous guests.

Then the more potent,
poetic delight of “plenipotentiary,”
the dictionary, the thesaurus -
better than the yellow pages
and Sears Christmas catalog.

No, the catalog was cool!
I miss it -

Grainy Brekkies

You can never
grasp, understand
bees keep stinging
venom that I bring
like constant ringing
of your front door bell
all these of forgotten
echoing of the years
what's of a sin I'm selling
that light so brightens
like new born flashes
no tail sweet light
stops smiling
I'm a familiarity
about to die,
hornet's pain to bring
timeless of photos
and those grainy
flashes of memories
I don't wish to see,
lapses bounces on

Is it really hatred or something much deeper?

They told me I was pretty for a black girl
But if that is the case
You want me to interpret that as being special
That out of every black girl
Im the exception
To your pre conceived perception
To how you view a black woman

The only way to take it
Is as an insult
Black women are beautiful
But your attitude isn't
And when

Something to Munch On

      The world too much occupied his mind
         left no room for things mundane 
      busy with intrigues of state and such
         from deep feelings he resolutely abstained 

Something

Is there fresh roasted coffee?
Is there warm cake for breakfast?
Yes, there is dark coffee, yes there is cake.
Did the small blue plate wash its face?
Does the buttery table
spread under the sun like a meadow?
Yes, the twinkling plate and the salty table
are laid sunny side up.
Are there rats in the walls?
Are there scurrying roaches?
One can ever

Always Up To Something

Always gliding across wood paneled floor.
Always dancing right by the bedroom door.
Always squishing cookie shaped stress ball.
Always bouncing off of the guest room wall.

Now is a good time to do something

Between the death and birth
there is absolutely an unknown period of time;
But for the time, you have a little value, just like a dime; 
And if you are a real ding-dong,
you are likely to think that it will last long;
However, look and see how fast your days goes by,
that’s why today is a good time

Something Left Over

It must have been made
and rejected
in times grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.

This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
soot seared across burnt eyeglasses,
blackened bones,
for after the gas came the flames.

Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, smithereens
dragged across a

Just a dream

It was just a dream but I have a headache from tears I never shed. 
It was just a dream but my breath is racing. 
It was just a dream but my heart is still thudding in my chest. 
It was just a dream but the pain still pulsates throughout my entire body. 
It was

Something cracked the shell

Frail heart's are weak minded bigots 
I felt this disturbance enter into the light 
this cold dark cloud burning below zero 
it sends the shivers coming from its shadow 
The broken record begins scratching a surface 
ingrowing putting the needle between words 
sewn deeply rooted the reflection appears mirrored 
frozen watching this crossover 
it all

They ask me why I write like this, as if I have swallowed something I cannot digest

They ask me why I write like this, as if I have swallowed something I cannot digest,
I tell them that I do not craft poems, I survive them, I carry them as a burden,
Each verse is a wound that decided to speak, a silent cry in the quiet night,
Each stanza is a bandage pretending to

Something Sweet

SUGARCANE!!!

-Gray Squirrel

06-18-2025

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