Children perceive the cries of their mother,
Mother unsupportive for the father’s noiseless soreness,
Soreness forgotten under the heaviness of days,
Days that build futures they never admire,
Admiration to mother’s effort, not to dad’s hands that strain.
Strain symbols his forehead, but silence skins the reality,
Reality ineffable by lips that profile their vision,
Vision of love biased, bitter and fictitious,
Fictitious the hate women hold since tender youth.
Youth forgets the man, who walked unaided,
Unaided in storms to shield his children from the cold,
Cold are hearts that never have been told,
Told of the shadow where love was strewed.
Poem by Mugisho N.
In scorching summer gathered flock of sheep
Under the blazing rays each to sweat deep.
All sweating profusely.
Got confused totally.
Just quenched thirst on sweat of other to sip.
Tears behind the cocktails,
Rowing down to calmness
Oasis was found,
Pure life's gratitude
I found after my mistake.
Confident I feel while I'm breathing loneliness.
Awake with open eyes
Lonely in a tropical island.
Isolated in the middle of the world, I wonder. I wander.
Sun shines above me with compassion, but I'm struggling.
Lucky that I saw a boat I could call its attention.
Amazing I found the gate from beauty to engage reality.
Nice to wake up in spite of having a
Delightful dream, or a nightmare, sweating in bed.
The short order cook is getting delirious at five in the morning
Beads of sweat showing under his funny hat
As he stares blankly at the eight new orders on the wheel,
And wonders when the drunks
Will all have enough and go home.
I’m one of the drunks
From a short order night
The band was hot
And the girls were swingin
But alas I finally walk out with no easy over lady.
And the waitress,
Scrambled yellow blond,
Takes my order
And adds it to the wheel.
More beads of sweat from the short order cook.
And he yells
“HERE’S YOUR ORDER STUPID”
to the scrambled yellow waitress.
“DON’T CALL ME STUPID!”
But she knows
He’ll give her
biscuits and gravy after it’s all over.
But in the meantime
It’s the drunks
On the other side of the counter
From this short order night
Eggs over easy
Pigs in a blanket
Hash browns and toast
Heartache and coffee
Yea, the short order cook plows on
And knows
That the nine orders on the wheel
Will not cook themselves.
He’s been on the other side too.
sweating snow, travel
a go? heavenly flakes
fluttering, stimulating, drawing
attention to themselves
cockapoo doesn’t sweat
his tail, sweep
sweep,sweep
his black coal nose nuzzles
the glorious landscape
slowly inches, back
to hearth and home
idly i stare, through off-white
curtains - they seemed white
yesterday; today
a go? impact:
will we head home…
Nov 2022
(My late father was a construction worker.Remember him on Father's Day.)
The construction workers with
Sweating foreheads
Dry throats
Burning skins
Blinding eyes
Struggle to build
An air-conditioned roof
Under the sun
For you and especially for you
While themselves
Working at a place
Without a fan or an air conditioner
But under a burning sun
Hanging from a roof called the sky
?Sweltering on the leather
front seat,
With sweat coming down
my tanned legs.
Feeling like being cooked,
as helpless,sunnyside up,eggs!
Those silver shades on the front
window,
don’t do me any good.
As I sit here, soaking, in my
California neighborhood!
Rather be in the house with a
cool glass of pink, fresh lemonade.
Oh, I forgot to mention, total
absence from any refreshing shade!
7/2/2021
9am
overcast the day
humid… like per sauna fied
all bodies sweating
sweating shame
feeling disconnected
from you
such a shame
i am in shambles
because of my life's
shambles, which was
in shambles
when shambles was
just a question in my
mind
sweating shame
feeling disrespected
by you
such a pain
i am in denial
because of my
ego's denial, which
was in denial
when denial was just
a happening in other
peoples' lives
sweating shame
feeling so rejected
like you
so insane
in am in a trance
because of my
presentation's trance,
which was in a trance
when a trance was just
a personal symptom of a
rare daydream
I was nervous before I first posted
Apprehensive what people would think
Would my poems be lauded or roasted
Hit submit and then grab a stiff drink.
My words on the screen looked so helpless
I had exposed them for others to see
And there I sat nervous and clueless
And concerned to a certain degree
What once lived in solitude musing
Was now laid out for others to see
Would they find it obtuse and confusing
If you love, then you must set it free.
When I got my first formal review
It produced a big heart warming smile
I still don't know if that kind person knew
I had picked from the top of the pile.
Then I got one of those "I don't get it"
And admit I was knocked for a loop
Different folks, different strokes didn't sweat
I'm so glad to be part of this group.
Anxious and sweating
Running away from the crash
She feared for her life
as I am here this warm evening
pressing the microphone button
on my smart phone
John Quincy Adams sits beside me
at his congressional desk
while Thomas Edison is sitting nearby
at a bench in Menlo Park and
Archimedes is lounging
down the hall in his bath
none of them are visibly
perturbed, nor exhibit
obvious genius as they are
creating the finer
points of civilization
for the greater good
while all I can do is
speak at my phone
which flashes lines of ads
about free online games
and sites of single Asian women
as I sweat to create
it's enough to consider
going to a libation establishment
and saying "hey barkeep,
give me a wallbanger
and an inspiration
with a twist"
© Goode Guy 2012-05-19
Genius is one percent inspiration,
ninety-nine percent perspiration. - Thomas Edison
the music is sweating in the room
strings and reeds bump and grind
slow-dragging dancers entwine
oh the fruit is ripe upon the vine
and the wine of love and laughter
a mingled vintage- joy and tears
now are drunk down to the dregs
then another round is poured
urgency prowls the crowd's periphery
everybody waiting for... nobody knows
but we'll pitch a fit when it gets here
some might even shed some clothes
desire is straining in the room
lust sniffs around like an old hound
trying to catch the scent,
purposed to pick up the trail
hunting money, hunting magic
hunting comfort, hunting tail
sweaty music sound still coming down
where are soft arms that hold tight
warm lips to lie that it's all right?
night turns like a page in a book
the guitar player throws out a hook
and sweating music command us look
for when the morning shall come
He spun the wheel,
no big deal there;
no real money.
In a short while.
that big smile of
poor Lyle vanished.
He pursed his lips,
Gripped his chips and
Took nips of gin.
Homework, friends, no time to spend,
watching TV or being lazy.
Assigned to work, no choses for you,
but TOUGH cookies all the pressures on you know who!
Tests, quizes, and exams, the teachers say 'SHAZAM!'
Think they know how hard it can be, on one who is always busy?!
NO!
5 pages of notes to copy down 'it'll take two minutes, no sweat' they say!
HELLO!! we are DIEING overhere anyway!
5 pages of notetaking,
an essay you must write,
and don't forget about all that homework for tonight!
The powerpoint that must be 56 slides, is due today, but I forgot to do that anyway!
That song you must compose that has to be meant for the sapranos, happens to be in your
desk, along with the rest on your info. for the test!(it happens to be open notes!)
For Spanish you find out you grabbed the wrong book, and you must look at the example
that's in YOUR BOOK!
Then comes the hardest part of your day, returning home to hear your mother say.....
"Hi honey, how was YOUR day? Got a little bit of homework?"
You just sigh and say forget it anyway!
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