I laid down my long schlong
On a table full of kong dongs
The judges had short tongs
To flip the dongs flop
the men and women on song
You wouldn't guess who won?
God, Tom, John, Cock?
No, you are so wrong
It was not my long schlong
Or Johns God throbbing Cock
It was Moscow and Washington
Two Absolute blue whale dongs
Throbbing all the way to the third war
“may gifts of silence illumine our mind ~
childlike heart becoming loving and kind”
~ quote by poet
as we gather pebbles in our heart’s nest
we may do well to pause and then reflect
that all we hold onto death’s tongs will wrest
leaving our deluded soul here shipwrecked
play of life is in incessant motion
where we cannot cross the same river twice
a quiescent heart ending commotion
whence each moment in time is paradise
gifts of solitude strengthen fortitude
that poised in the void by thoughts not decoyed
our aura is with love and light imbued
revealing pure light of Self unalloyed
contrast desire with soul’s eternal fire ~
search for truth within, in silence inquire
Poet and saint Dunstan was great, pushed in a cesspool.'
He arose.' He survived he was no fool.' Archbishop He would be'
Counsel to Kings. Often gave he! humble yet strong he
Ordered lexicons studied songs, grabbed Satan's nose; with
Hot tongs.' From his cell of five feet by three.' He moved
On to Cantebury.'
pull out all the stops
keep your shoulder to the wheel
go the extra mile
bust your chops sweat blood
work your fingers to the bone
bend over backwards
go to great lengths put
your heart and soul into it
and work like a dog
go at it hammer
and tongs roll up your sleeves do
the heavy lifting
put your nose to the
grindstone put in the hours
break your back
compassion felt in my chest,
in my abdominals,
in my mind…it hurts
i cannot speak
of such atrocity
as I have heard about
i feel sick
what inhuman entity
would do such things
no human
could
one would have to be
possessed
by the devil
do you follow such creatures?
do they inhabit you too?
scrub yourself with hyssop
tongs to your tongue with heaven’s burning coal
the tongue is out of control…the final fruit
is self-control…line up the tongue
with God’s Holy Spirit
speak life…be whole
by tongs
ready set a melt down
I hate it
An applecart of half-eaten ideas
pushed into sight by heavyweight ghosts.
Wormwood and cider
the aroma of root beer in a lit-up air.
The poet pauses….judges the hunger
of his next line
to fulfill the wishes of finger-following gods.
Orchard trees separate, bow out of the crowd
to stand alone in the spaces between the words.
Sandalwood is harvested for the coming cremation,
the fire tongs are white hot
as they pluck burning fruit
out of the furnace of an Archean Ur
where the charred apples find grazing mouths
Nature mulches in the churning
now the apple is in the maggot
ready to sour or delight.
Wool gathering shepherds guide their flocks
from the pulverizing organs
of creation
into valleys of dark and light.
cigarette falling, snow-
ing in-
side the bronco,
buck-
ing ash two-digit scissors
reach-
ing like tongs
passenger’s eyes pop
driver
retrieves, revels, masters
the smoke; a joke
to the occupant
occupational hazard:
timing of
timber
window ajar; a trail
of chimney smoke
a cautionary tale:
don’t make my insides jiggle
jingle bells are merrily ringing
can’t help myself
previously, at the airport
man flies
off his luggage seat
goes splat in the turkey line
his phone’s fly-
ing
and i wonder why
i’m the only one
giggling
i leave the state in newfallen snow,
splash-
down on the tarmac
in Georgia
Nov 2022
To walk the talk over burning hot coal
Tests the mettle of God-bestowed free will
Debate ensues between ego and soul
By hammer and tongs, shaped on the anvil
Hesitation signals we’re not ready
Looking at how to better our morrow
Unable yet to hold love’s flame steady
Self-serving instinct cause of our sorrow
In the playground of life, as we do dance
We begin to look beyond outer form
Every breath we take, offers us a chance
To choose love over strife, in each life storm
It’s high time hermit, that we stand erect
Heeding voice of conscience, our life’s perfect
21-April-2022
A Pentecostal writer of songs
Quit a waitress job she thought was wrong.
At the bar, sings and plays
‘Bout her wild salad days.
See, back then, she was speaking in tongs.
A KISS OF DEATH
I sensed isolation
I felt botherd, broken and ablazed
I know I'm too far away
Into the darkened route of blank moon
Into a negative stream of sentiment
In an off-circle somewhere in forever land
I was;
Deepened deeply with sharpened tongues of deceit
Dropping off tears of flaming tongs
Dawn too caugth me deep in darkness
And in silence I raised my head up
and whispered a roar at the stars above
Why me?
I raised a bottle of sweet poisoned wine to absorb and to taste a kiss of death
But yet, a voice so swift and tender
So juicy and slowly
Thwarted my attention as she said;
"Dear child it's not too late to make a change, life goes on even without your former, wipe your tears and re-join the circle round, remake yourself, turn your local into the modern you want."
©Gideon I Tukuna
This lost light,
lost is not...
must be in some
corner of the universe,
without being able to show off...
We need to search it,
snatch it with tongs
patience,
with stoic hope
we need to rescue her,
even if it is asleep
at the bottom of the deepest pit... !
Cave ne cadas... !
We should never desist.. !
A pair of forceps the size of food tongs
turned off one light in my two room watch tower.
In those days Grizzly bears were called eye surgeons.
I did not see half the world slip away
over my left shoulder.
A cyclopean tunnel forgot it was ever
able to swivel eyeballs and see around
the edges of a circle.
It’s all fish-eyes under an arched bridge now.
As long as a telescope is applied to the correct frontal lobe
my bullet-shaped sight can punch holes through perception
just as well as any less precise cannonball.
Both Bach and Handel went blind under the helping hands
of one surgeon who’s name history has long forgot.
Even though their eyes were dimming
their music shone all the brighter.
Poetry is its own on-man-band,
it makes its own music even in the darkest cave.
When mother goes to vote.
We all get up at the peep of day and fret and fume and stew,
While father lays the breakfast cloth and makes the coffee too.
He always gets his fingers burned I would not dare to quote
The things he says around the stove when mother goes to vote.
The cat is sure to steal the cream the puppy steals the steak,
And when we wash the dishes up a lot are bound to break,
And baby chokes and cries enough to spit his little throat.
And father seem to hate himself
When mother goes to vote.
We kids are all as still as mice and at attention stand,
Prepared to run for curling tongs and pins at her command
And father hooks her up the back and helps her with her coat
and puts her in a cab when mother goes to vote.
Author unknown
I did not write this poem. I discovered it in a journal belonging to my Great grandmother.
Her name was Minnie Ameilia (Haccansen) Tyner. She died in May 1920. She lived in Aberdeen,South Dakota
ANGELS WITH GREEN FACES
Saturday evening, big night everywhere,
Six teenage girls, hormones to spare,
gather in the bedroom to prepare.
Mirror, hairdryer, tongs for curling,
giggles and squeals, music blaring,
make-up, perfume, clothes for sharing.
“Mum” came the call, upstairs I trot,
enter the bedroom after a knock,
step back in horror, what a shock,
six green faces covered in face pack,
half-dressed, excited, hair tied back,
trying not to let the green mask crack.
Red lipstick, have you got some there?
and black tights, can we borrow a pair?
Please could you blow-dry Sarah’s hair?
I smile, comply with all their requests,
observe the whole going-out process,
masks removed, now dress to impress.
Duties done, I return downstairs,
shortly after, a sound in our ears,
clumping of heels, in fact six pairs,
enter for usual inspection format.
Is this skirt too short? Do I look fat?
Is this jacket okay with that?
Of course, we never dared to state
other than that they looked great.
Teenage egos are easy to break.
Front door slams, we sigh and smile,
peace descends for a precious while,
bottle opened, wine poured, chill.
Ruth Mawdsley
Nov 2019
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