Wring Poems | Examples

Too Much

Can one ever have too much of a good thing?
Can I squeeze out an answer, my brain to wring? 

Some folks will tell you I think too much, 
with little to show, 'cuz I'm out of touch.

Good food and drink should be taken in moderation. 
So, I'll stop trying to eat everything in creation.

Can one have too much sex?  Should it be my goal
to find out, or should I not touch that with a pole?

Can there be too much love?  Who'd be so hard-boiled
to say that?  My grandma, who says I'm spoiled. 

Can one laugh too much or go over the top?
If you're laughing at someone else, you should stop. 

I can't say what's too much!  Who am I to judge?
Time for my tenth piece of chocolate fudge.

I've yammered on and said "too much" too much. 
So, I'll shut my mouth, but let's keep in touch.

Mouth

I’ve grown a mouth that’s so,
sharp.
Cruel. 
When anyone gets near, 
I bite with my quick words.
Leaving nothing but a scar.
It’s all I can give you.
And when you come,
And steal a kiss,
My teeth,
will only cut your lips.
And I wanted to so bad,
But it seems,
I only break pretty things.
I know you meant well, 
but I’m not a vessel for your good intent.
I will only wring you dry.
Leaving you with nothing.
but your bones,
Brittle and cold.
I’m sorry, 
I’m not what you’ve asked for.
But you need abandon.
All your stupid dreams,
Of what you wanted me to be.
You gotta know,
that this won’t last.
But if you’re blind to that,
I am fine with that.

Wrung Betwixt the Sky and Sea

Blue on blue
a sandwich
of the sky and sea
clutching on
jealously
to the distant horizon.

They both join hands,
laugh, 
and emit their
features, 
creatures and apparitions.

Streaming towards you
like they're on 
washing machine wringer rollers,
one spinning out and up
the other,
spinning out and down,
painting the scene 
blue on blue,
silk-screened.

Seagulls soar.
Flying fish leap.
Dolphins hobby-horse.
Fishes flip, flop and swim.
Clouds billow and wallow along.
Waves rush onward with crests 
on their chests.

All this and more, is rolled out at dawn,
then gets rolled away at dusk,
to wring another day.

MY DORMANT PAST

MY DORMANT PAST

MEMORIES OF THE PAST MAY COME AND GO, 
BUT ONE NEEDS TO BE IN CONTINOUS FLOW. 
SMELL OF CRUMPLED DREAMS IS IN MY MIND,
ANALOGY OF BOTH ALWAYS KEEP US BIND.
DREAMS TURNED INTO SMOKE AND SPREAD WINGS,
COMING BACK TO ME GASP AND UNIFY IN WRING. 
MAY BE ANOTHER DAY SOMEONE BRING TO FRUITION,
THAT DAY MY SOUL WILL BE IN EXUBERATION.
SEEING DREAMS IN EYE OF SOMEONE, AWAKE MY FANTASY, 
DIVINE HAS SENT SOMEONE TO RUN MY LEGACY.

the Danish imbroglio

a Danish imbroglio

The Danish prime minister is appealing to Europe to stop Trump’s idea of taking Greenland and making it an American state
What he wants not that he is overly interested
is to be sure that no other country places
 bases on Greenland’s still-cold soil like Russia 
or China 
the Vikings when Greenland had a period of thawing had farms there, which tells us the brave Vikings were mostly farmers, their fierceness is a national lie 
As for Europe helping look another way they
write the declaration of good intent and should
Say, Trump, post troops on the Island, the EU
will wring their hands and do nothing
We know this when Gaza suffered a mini holocaust it lamented, but otherwise, did nothing, even Germany in her misguided sense
of guilt lasting for generations sent weapons to Israel 
So, we tell Denmark you are on your own to deal
with this new situation, but to give more money for the defense of Greenland is futile
Perhaps the Danish “hygge” might help

The Ramblings of a House Wife

The soft clouds of cotton white
Wipe away the tears of the earth
Absorbing the pain poured and puddled below
Swarms of pestilence incubated in muddy melancholic pools of despair
From clean, fresh, white fluff, these clouds absorb the real us
Aging each one to the salt and pepper gray and musky stench of filth
Mop it up
Wring it Out
Over mountain, valley, and field
The dirty emotion and sordid feelings like mop water rain down
Yet at the dawn a clean shining light
The sorrow of the night
Washed away with clear, blue skies and
The crisp wind snap of clothes line white clouds.

By the Author's Own Hand

Young man, sit down, a poem to write.
I can't.  I've been thinking day and night.
Go forth, then, to old man Palmer's field.
That spooky place, ideas will yield.
Inspiration from my brain to wring,
what about the Addams family Thing?
That gentleman was only one hand.
I found the other on Palmer's land.
Yes, ma'am, there it was, lying face up.
This kind of thing, you just can't make up.
At home, I put it by my rusty nails
with my collection of lizard tails.
I soon forgot it and went to sleep,
and that hand wrote this poem, so deep.
So, if you happen on a severed hand,
he only hopes you will understand.

Space To Process

To call you a pansy insults the flower.
It seems you cried for nearly an hour;
your mother called to say she’d lost.
So ‘space to process’ at a cost
of fifty six thousand for the year
to cancel class and sip craft beer…
‘Buck up’ is what my mum would say,
but then of course she’d never pay
so I could breakfast with the dean
and wring my hands about well-being.
I guess I’m old; my youth is gone.
I’d likely say, Get off my lawn!
But hun, you life is going to hurt
when you discover things like dirt
and sweat and toil and grit and grime.
I hope that in some future time,
you’ll look back on Trump’s second win,
say, Man, I was a pansy then.

Wring

A tear of cloud,
Blew away because of the wind.
Care to explain their relationship?
Did someone tell it to do?
Each era taught us these to end
Fights between us and to
Greet each other so that,
Humble nature will be grown.

A New Day - Wildflowers

Roads long squandered,
Routes trained to memory.
a crack in the long unyielding concrete
unremarkable.

Then, a wildflower
A peculiar pink.
Leather, nostalgia.
Cinnamon, mellow.

Stop dead in my tracks,
Wistful, yearn.
Many a while did I dream of creation
After all, what does it take?
Soil, water, an undefeated soul.

Many a while did I long for something that called me God.
Many a while did I pick up a pen,
Dropped it back down.
Afraid of laughter no one laughed,
Fearing fingers yet unpointed.

What does it mean to begin?
What does it take to begin?
Paper, ink, a sliver of hope.
Do I have what it takes to begin?

Now every new page,
A breath of awakening
In a book awaiting it's soul.
A step, far from empty pages.

Albeit one, this stride
holds strength of lifetimes far spent.
And as I sit, winds of change,
Of beginning, blowing through my hair finally let down.

A start. 
Breaking apart the shackle that is anticipation.
Everything goes, and so will this fear.
And as my soul, my blood, my sweat, my tears, I wring into form,
Perhaps, 
I have what it takes to begin.

Wring the Sweat out of your Shirt

    A wall of heat down on you bores
      enervates your every pore
    The fiery sun you implore
      ‘Who can take this anymore’

    Your heart is deadened, your brain is fried
      There’s not enough fresh air to sigh
    Wring the sweat out of your shirt
       Hide your body’s baked-in dirt

    But check outside, just in case
       Hey, what’s this your arms embrace
    Drops of rain now splash your cheek
       A fresh wind blows from mountain’s peak

    A moment ago you’d surrendered
       Thanks to Heaven need be rendered

Oh great lion!

Oh great lion! You're called the king, 
You roar; the jungle hears your ping, 
Others scamper about in fear, 
You then mock their fright with a jeer, 
By giving them your stares that sting.

Not even monkeys dare to swing, 
Rather their screams everywhere ring, 
For all the beasts around to hear, 
Oh great lion!

All stubborn animals you'll wring, 
Their bones you'd rather crush than fling, 
So, where you reign none ventures near, 
Lest their last farewell, others sing. 
Oh great lion!

Globalism dreams itself a hegemon, a giant upon a throne of glass, ephemeral

Globalism dreams itself a hegemon, a giant upon a throne of glass, ephemeral,
And can only live through brief stints, sporadic in time and deed,
Through the harshest force of terror, its heart locked within shadow;
It silently prepares to rule through fear, for such is its path to ascend.
"Children of the world, unite!" is the cry, but it's a cry muffled by deeply implanted fears,
They hammer nails of "justice" into half-informed minds as into hard, thick wood,
To steal away the thought of self, to wring out reason to the last drop,
And to build within them a clean conscience for the dirty game they are doomed to play.
Crumbling on stage, this globalism cloaks words in noble masks of care and well-being,
But beneath them, the whisper of ancient chains lays upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting.
A world that rolls towards unity, yet breaks into pieces of ice and silence,
In their play, we become unsuspecting pawns, in a game that pawns its future for naught.

Wanderlust Winds

Souls borne on wanderlust winds 
Never their wandering fate rescind.
They wander like winds throughout their lives 
Enslaved to adventure for which they strive.
Living life on its razor-thin edge 
At the tip of fate’s precarious wedge, 
They ride like Valkyries into war, 
Not knowing what life is really for.
Some are heroes, and some are rogues 
Who will constantly wring from life its most.
But, in the end, they are lusty slaves 
To their itchy feet’s whims 
And life’s wondrous ways.

Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -

In the 50's mom and grand
Had that old Maytag™ drum washer
It would twist and dance
~
Wiggle N turn
Like a baby wobble 
That old washing machine 
~
had a motor almost as big 
as a Volkswagen 
Boy, did love to wash them clothes

In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -
~
shaped shaped like a barrel
 on top of it a wringer 
with a handle place in the clothes 
~
Too wring out put it in a wicker basket
And then take to the clothesline 
and hang up too dry outside

That task was a job., was a shore 
In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -

In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer

12/8/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023

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