My vacuum cleaner likes cookies
Sometimes it makes sounds like Wookies
It eats crayons too
And a lace from a tennis shoe
It hums along with this suction song
Eating up all in its path
It does a good job cleaning
But it can't do math
It caresses carpets and rugs
It invites in bugs
Cobwebs and corners
There's no hiding from this hoarder
There is nothing too tough
And my vacuum stays buff
By sucking at what it does for a living
So if you get the unction
And you see me just standing around
Plug me into the circuit
If you know how to work it
There are goldfish lying on the floor
Snippets and paper punches galore
Glitter strewn and clumps of play dough
And a foreign object....God only knows
So here's to my vacuum
And all you consume
Going from door to door
And room to room
We glide across the floor like Rogers and Astaire
We brush everybody's hair
And after you have done your best
I will put you away for another night’s rest
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.
Written: November 05, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
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He ruled with a rakish grin ... a slack scythe in his sanguine fist—
A pharaoh of spurious gloat ... redolent of lard and treacle,
His laws ratified in rapture ... festooned the sacred with spit.
A seraglio of skeuomorphs ... hailed his wondrous fashion sense—
The riparian fields sank ... in soaked squalor and dysania,
He wore a nimbus of stink ... a stygian sherpa to dire fate.
In his sesquipedalian bragging ... the soul of land grew slack—
Each boast is a blur, each law ... a grieving gasp of suction,
Even the seraphic ibis flinched ... its wings dimmed by his shadow.
With tales of Siamese stars and stew ... he won over the jury—
Though the slack-jawed and gaunt group ... gnawed on serendipity bones,
There was no spark ... just the sizzle of sand in a dying sun.
Now his tomb lies amid a cold dune ... decked with dysenteric myths—
A janiform relic of zeitgeist and treason ... stripped of all zest,
The sovereign ruin ... no ripple, no ravel, no rove of resile.
When one becomes aged
there are multiple goodbyes
than hellos
In every case of loss,
learn to find peace in farewell
Feel the suction in your stomach
and the wonderful roar ...
step on the gas ... LIVE ... HELLO !
I guess all roads eventually
lead back the echo of the silence
A tear in my eye, refuses to fall
Cherish every turn and bump on the road
Written: September 15, 2025, for a contest sponsored by John Lawless
*********
Perhaps it was never love—
just a fipple of breath in velvet dusk,
a suction of names unspoken,
burnished by the stygian hush
between your glance and mine.
Perhaps the ossuary sang first—
an aria of alabaster bones,
each note a necrotic lullaby.
We writhed in the molten ache,
palliating truth with ephemera,
inveigled by the aureate hush
of what we dared not name.
Perhaps this is the Desideratum—
a triptych of sacred forgetting,
Lethe in a chalice of dedication,
The hex of hope is still undulating
beneath our slack-jawed silence.
I like to think big thoughts,
but when I tie my brain in knots,
I eat a couple tater tots.
Who was best? The Sultan of Swat?
Maybe he was - maybe not.
I'm not sure, but if you ask me, man,
my money's on Ohtani from Japan.
If you think my poems ain't good enough,
consider that I know lots of stuff -
like: there's no fruit more popular than a
orange, an apple, or a banana.
I think it would be really neat
to have suction cups for feet,
I would not be limited, anymore,
to walking only on the floor.
Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall,
I'd stroll the ceiling and the wall.
Everyone would fall in love
with me as I look down from above,
knowing I will never drop
as my feet loudly pop, pop, pop.
I think it would be really neat
to have suction cups for feet,
I would not be limited, anymore,
to walking only on the floor.
Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall,
I'd stroll the ceiling and the wall.
Everyone would fall in love
with me as I look down from above,
knowing I will never drop,
as my feet loudly pop, pop, pop.
A better name for an octopus?
It's tough to make stuff up.
We could start with a brand-new appellation.
How about a name like "Suction Pup"?!
Or perhaps we could start the debate
with a numerical tag like "Ocean's Eight".
Another name open for discussion
would be a handle like "Squid's Cousin".
Still another, somewhat grandiloquent,
could be the rather pompous "Inknificent".
My Scottish friends, with joy, will weep
if the new label is "Bagpipes of the Deep"!
Or one can almost hear sailors shout "Ahoy!
Is that a rock? No, it's an Ol' Tangly Boy!"
We have some squirrels that we love to see
which seem to be part of our home.
They run back and forth from our old Oak tree
and feast at the self-service dome;
to find food- there's no need to roam.
The plastic feeder with suction holds fast
to our sunroom window where we
can sit through the day enjoying the cast
of squirrels and birds that are free
to come- joining the eating spree.
We watch their drama almost every day:
each one standing guard for a turn-
at times with the stress of having their way.
They flee, and this can cause concern;
yet, when the fights end, all return.
The squirrels rank top in chains of command;
the birds all must wait in a line-
except when a Blue Jay flies down to land,
all give up their pleasure to dine-
or pecked as a stern warning sign.
With squirrels, we stand up close, very near.
They watch us while eating their feed-
accept us fondly without showing fear;
seem thankful we honor their need-
and show that we've done a good deed.
the suction force magical
of the guru chakra
draws in the essence of soma
from the whirring third eye
upwards, upwards, through itself
into the crown chakra
that as a seamless whole we be
entwined with universal mind
so be it
A hectic stare across the cliff,
grabs my prying mindfulness.
but yet I hanker after urban fare,
such ruptured loyalty alas,
has a solid grip as I inhale,
the rampant toxic seaweed odor,
for which release a bland choice,
as bulging dark gray torrents,
remind us of some threat,
a fancy name as birthmark,
blemish, or craven riddle,
consequential strain I fear,
might alter this delay,
how city haven slant,
bustle, blast, benign graft,
has fallout clearly vetted,
sink block, suction pump,
remedial quick brush off,
two rocky worlds aside,
where common ground,
that less distinct blight,
consuming blind thought,
downpour on the crevice,
outskirt mere sideshow,
flight a gut reaction say,
let valor plot or plod,
whatever barren sabotage,
malaise, daft wanton dash,
each muddled exit’s close loop,
one must master by right,
ominous veil now pending,
scatter brained inkling wrought,
lure, allure, attachment beckons,
departure problematic when pressed,
bursts of rain, bursts of sound,
seeking shelter but clueless,
would things be otherwise,
in large built up areas,
I ponder this dilemma,
while dreaming of fair vales,
or mystic laneways of yore
he hides himself into an empty wrapper
a hollow shell that remained after the storm
where life once resided before the heavy toll
of addiction arrogance destruction hurt and
the combustive mixture of void and destruction
an all-inclusive ticket to stagnant displeasure
a homeless abode untenanted wreck
futile worthlessness vacant desolation
disconnected and detached he does not half fill
the cover where isolation has taken his place
and shielded nothingness evaporates from his mind
in which melancholy oozes lost hope
a sheathed vacuum with suction pump attached
portrays the only reminder of motion and living
he feels very little but pictures himself
as Dali´s warped melted clock
a time bomb disguised as a land mine
for good expandable measure of meaning
12 November 2023
mama likes to play
accidental suction of
my little dogs tail
A mass of emerald and ochre leaves,
sway upon the light summer breeze.
Suction of boots to big, wrenched from the muck,
grunting, banging, the metal bucket thunks.
The old farmer in his coveralls stands at the fence,
watching the struggling girl, bucket bangs, eyes wince.
'Ya wanna ta' feed um' he urges her on,
huffing, puffing, nose wrinkled of odors not fond.
A glorious glint of green and blue plumage,
is all that's needed to encourage.
Shrieking cries they emit, she jumps in fright,
screaming, slipping, sliding, then caught in plight.
Stuck in the mud, smelling quite rotten,
are boots too big, long forgotten.
Many things could kill you.
Car wrecks, fall from a roof, electrocution,
starvation, heart attack, brain cancer, Alzheimer’s.
I shall choose something fun to kill me.
Walking the plank, shoot out at the OK corral,
boomerang rebound, King Kong, a cephalopod attack
I dream of watching a giant squid pull me away
With his enormous suction cups,
his tentacles and giant arms making the victory sign.
It is a memorable death, making a terrific obituary story.
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