"beaker" poems
To the tune of Five For Fighting's "100 Years to Live"
From "Frogs For Fighting"
Kermit Sings:
I'm just a simple green Muppet,
Good old friends with Scooter and Fuzzy,
And I'm small and skinny,
A quiet frog that's on the roam.
Animal's clearing out the whole fridge,
There's a Muppet chef inside the kitchen,
Making gibberish sounds,
Boiling a goose or baking rolls.
Piggy I'm alright with you,
No other Muppet pig will do,
MRS. PIGGY-there's never a wish better than this,
When you've got a hundred Muppet Tears TO GIVE...
I'm searching stars at the moment,
Still the frog-I'm just in love with a pig,
Dream of a connection,
A constellation for a sign,
Count goes "AH AH AH" when counting,
Cookie Monster's nomming on the cookies,
Snuffleupagus sounds like he just might have a cold...
But Piggy I'm alright with you,
You've got much might-no one can kick **** quite like you...
But piggy I'm OK with you,
MRS. PIGGY-there's never a wish better than this,
When you've got a hundred Muppet Tears TO GIVE...
Through a small Muppet's eyes
Can tell you no lies,
Bunson's Lab-a surprise,
Madness, havoc explode,
Beaker's running to hide,
We're moving on...
I'm feeling light at the moment,
Small as can be-the sky-all I view,
And I'm just reeling,
High up in the clouds-a message in blue,
...Mrs. Piggy I'm alright with you,
You're black belt in Karate and Kung Fu,
Super Grover's on his way,
Every Muppet has their dog day...
Wooohooo-oohoohoo
Wooohooo-oohoohoo
Wooohooo-oohoohoo-oohoohoo
Piggy I'm alright with you,
There's no other Muppet pig like you,
MRS. PIGGY, there's never a wish-better than this...
When you've got a hundred Muppet Tears TO GIVE...
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
You were an acid
Destroying others
Making them nothing
And hungry for more
I was a base
An innocent mind
Eager for adventure
Reactive to a select few
We were neutralised
With me, you were tamed and docile
With you, I was someone new
Our beaker fell off the counter top
And
s ha t t e r e d
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
There's a fire hose:
You drink it.
Well, you try to drink it.
You playfully examine it
For a few moments, then
You wrap your lips around the nozzle,
And pump up the pressure:
It blows you back
And pins you to a wall.
The spray stings your eyes,
But if it brings tears to them,
They are washed away by the flow,
Before you, or anyone else,
Can be sure they were there.
Your limbs ache,
You think that if only
You could rest them,
You could hold them stronger
But the time for rest rarely comes.
Some people, washed in despair
Or simply sanity, step out of the way
Never to look back and never to regret.
Some collapse or simply drown.
Others stand the force.
The mass of the waters accelerates,
But still they stand strong.
Wavering at times,
But never giving up.
And one day the flow slows
To a stream, to a trickle, to a drip
Then it stops.
You stand there:
Sudden and Sullen,
Dripping and Deflated,
Percolated, but Proud,
Wet, but Wise.
And you reach out,
Brass Rat rusted to your knuckle:
You grab a beaker and into it
You wring the waters of knowledge
From the clothes of your experience.
You take this drought and distill it.
You bottle it, you market it, or you give it away,
But, with luck, it takes the world by storm.
From the fire hose flow rises the rarefied results
Filtered through your hands,
Tested in your trials, Fortified in your failures,
Vivified in your victories.
You look back with mixed emotions:
Wondering if it was all really worth it.
Your prospective my grow,
It may never be clear,
But the fire hose flows on...
~D.B. Guy (March 6-12, 2010)
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.
You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.
You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.
You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
As I strolled down Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me
That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"
So it was I thought to myself
I can think of nobody else
As serious a poet as I
I looked to the right and the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself
And decided to take a gander inside
The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks
I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction
Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurred a little too late
But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing
A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible
That's the moment in my pants I started messing
Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness
What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing
I was grabbed by a couple of ugly thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash
Tied up and flown off to the smallest of islands
Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree
All because to insanity they took a liking
When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun
Don't know how many walls they had me climbing
Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not too late
When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it
I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to little ole me
And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
A social milieu nigh Zipper Beach
And surfing early morning, she's looking for her board.
A test of hers only to wipe out again only miss. So hang ten my good friend!
In Cabo San Lucas but she's full tilt there shall grant a beaker again and again. Ole
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
We shall wipe you OUT
We will ERASE you
We are the children's of Cain and that is what we do
I come from the lands of the Baobab tree and Cocoa Tree
Steep in the tradition of revering life and nature all free
By my wits and honest endeavours toiled and earned my fee
Never harmed nor injured never stole even a penny wee
Paid my dues and gave when I could always busy as a bee
Now YOU the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
I come from a land that knows parched earth and hunger
Where great rivers flow yet clean water comes in little beaker
Proud animals run free and only the rodents are for hunter
Trees are fertile with fruits aplenty and vegetables are litter
In gleeful kin and merry we share harvest with each other
Now you the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
What is my crime pray tell me when in honest endeavour
I gave and shared my wages and food to an errant neighbour
Who repaid my kindness by robbing mine with cruel vigour
And whilst I remorsed such vileness with fervent pained ardor
They riposted, a trip back to your jungle is what we will conjure
Now YOU the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
Children's of Cain know nothing but death and destruction
You came to ours and plundered all you could with ruction
You stole, fornicated, ruined and destroyed with glib seduction
Modern times has merely refined your vainglorious disposition
Distinguished misrulers, liars and evil masters of misappropations
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
Children's of Cain OTHERS know all YOU do is ****
Like your FATHER killed his BROTHER
Like your FATHER killed his guiltless BROTHER
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
for KA
There is something in this for both of us. We have chemistry, let's be lab partners. Help me with problems like which would make a better poem: a pandemic, a wolverine, or a broken heart? You know I only chose you because you enjoy my fondling your blond *** as you lean over the Bunsen burner, because we have flammable *** on the periodic table, but this is more serious than calculations or ******* As a poet, I need to access the deeper moaning of reality, but you are a screamer, not a moaner. Let's experiment anyhow. Lift that skirt and let's explore something elemental, make a new molecule, feel the reaction. Help me probe the fundamentals of creation and I may love you, though surely not enough, as we are both non-valent. Even though we may never bond, we are in this together, partner. Lift your beaker to my lips. Outcomes are never certain.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.
i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.
i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.
and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.
and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
I step towards the pool.
You look at me like each step is the end of my life.
I swing my leg on the side.
You flinch.
I laugh at your expression.
You didn't find it quite so funny.
I guess it's really not that funny to you,
how your mouth puckers into a straight line when you hear me laugh,
like the picket fence outside the house you were born in,
only the stark white boards of that fence don't curve downwards at the ends.
There's a fine line of difference between us,
the difference being "don't", "won't", "can't"
and other four letter words, such as "fear", "play", and "lame".
I stifle my laughter and try again to coax you to the edge, the edge of the earth.
You frown, and back away, mumbling like that one Muppet.
Beaker, right?
"Come down!" Beaker cries. "You're being crazy!"
Meepmeep.
The thought of this causes me to laugh again.
You. A Muppet.
You would die if you knew.
I take another step, another, another, further away from you,
up the metal rungs to the top of the world.
The ground slaps beneath me, resilient and springy like summer grass.
I remember your face, panicked, frantic.
I dove.
You claimed you couldn't.
From the bottom of the pool, the world is crisp and clear,
like a vat of liquid nitrogen biting at my skin.
When I resurface it becomes blatantly evident.
I dry off and walk away through the counter.
Don't try to follow me.
I tried.
You didn't.
Maybe I AM crazy.
The bottom line is
even though I'm afraid of heights,
I still climbed that ladder.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:10 PM UTC
Yeah it's Jay, Mr. Self Saboteur,
Fill the bottle up thats what I got the bottle for,
Self fufillin' prophecies got me on the floor,
Drinkin' is the reason but it got me wantin' more,
Not a variety of sobriety when I'm shoppin' in the store,
Got me thinking what's the reason I'm coppin' all this for?
Jesus blood stains up on the sheets,
No Zzz's when I sleep,
All my cups filled up with alcoholic drinks,
So I'm up in that Anonymous,
Cup in hand, hungry hippopotamus,
Sayin' to the man, "I think we need a little Ciroc in us"
I've got a problem, why you think I'm stoppin' cuz?
My names Jay and the liquor's messin' me up,
Every night fellin' closer to Aaliyah,
Saw my reflection now I'm lookin' at the reaper,
Experiment with liquor so fill up my beaker!
Hand on the Bud Light,
Fuckin' with my love life,
Sippin' on the suds like,
Toast to the tough life!
This phenix burns,
Born in thorns with alcoholic horns,
Lookin' at the bottom of the bottle,
Askin' my self if my heart's this hollow,
What do I do? Toss it or swallow,
Well that is a problem for the Jay of tomorrow,
Tryin' to deal with the ills of my convictions,
Sippin' on the liquid of my sickenin' addiction,
Yeah ma, loosen up my inhibitions,
Binge drinkin' means no intermissions,
So welcome my beloved inebriation,
Cup to my mouth instead of conflict confrontation,
Sippin' on the liquid that is toxic to the nation,
Women gettin' twisted my ironic liberation,
If I drink too much I'ma keep it up,
Pinky finger up,
Worried my liver's not weak enough,
Speech slurred so I won't speak to much,
But my mouth's wide open talkin' greek and stuff,
Opps I made a mistake,
Trade Jack Daniels for tonights date,
Gotta live with the consequences that I hate,
Choosin' liquid over women that I try to sedate.
Seems like I'll never get them back,
Well I'll just have to find love within the cup that's in my lap,
So this is a toast to all the alcoholics,
Put up an empty cup, just a little symbolic,
Sacrifice love for a chick that's nymphonic,
And realize it was fine before the Hypnotic,
****
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
The scientist moved from table to table, beaker to beaker. She adjusted her goggles on her nose and sniffed, turning a vial on its head, tipping its content into another.
She stood back and with frantic, excited gleams playing in her eyes observed the mixture fizz, fizzle, pop, sizzle and flow over.
She hmmed and this is where I stepped in, asking her, what it is she was doing. What experiment was she carrying out? What question she was attempting to answer.
She, beginning an attempt anew, picked up a vial containing a sweet-scented liquid and stepped up to her table again.
“I’m trying to see...dear. I’m trying to see...”
“See what?”
“The balance. What is the right amount...” She breathed this last sentence under her breath like it was a question more to herself than an answer to me.
“The right amount of what?”
At this, she turned to me.
“Of Love.” She said.
“For you either love too much or too little.
Or you either receive too much love or too little love. And in each case, it leaves a dreadful feeling in one's stomach.
This cannot be healthy. It isn’t. So I must find out this equation, solve this puzzle for it is so perplexing.”
She turned back to her vials and beakers, murmuring under her breath all the while. “It is so perplexing...it is so perplexing...”
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
The butterfly flutters in the skies
looking for a mere complication
to a place where the sun smiles
below the daily mediocre waves
where all tunes same frequency
the multitude parades in lines
sinking in unproven priced lies
moving all along in a rollercoaster
In upward current the levelled high
In downward demotion the trips
As we drool on the bonded chains
In upheaval of lame indecisions
Casting all there is and there is not
Must we sacrifice all we have got
The body that chooses to give and live
A soul in forests waiting to soar
A mind carrying more than it bears
On this holy ground that sink below
where faith is grass that withers
and hope is a rainbow that fades
The blooded paths painted in red
oozing confusion and utter misery
Shall we wait for the embellished heroes?
To teach us how to be and survive
Police bark and robots deployed to shoot
Civilians protest on injustice and inequality
we all beaker and peck the sainted patch
Humanity is our freedom and grace
a tapestry blended by colours and cultures
a oneness painted and screening liberty
The authentic texture of raw love and truth
tainted by patriotism and indocrination
Networks channel and harvest poor yields
whilst we beaker with heated controversies
I, you, we all breath the same scented air
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
easily,
with an optimism misguided,
that both volume and quality
of what lay within was
infinite,
a beaker that could never
be drained, nor overflow,
brimming and believed,
in the always
of a
next poem!
know better,
known worse,
and the only poems that are birthed,
all flawed, lesser,
the curse of worse,
time wrenching
the best words away,
alas!
spend, spent, sent…
it was writ as a hope,
now, a false prophecy
and woe
misbegotten
<>>
Jan. 13, 2014
a flawless poem
*if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get*
*if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess*
*lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,*
his flawless poem,
at long last
Jan 14, 2024
Jan 14, 2024 at 9:55 AM UTC
As I strolled Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me
That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"
So it was I thought to myself
I can think of nobody else
As serious a poet as I
I looked to the right and the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself
And decided to take a gander inside
The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks
I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction
Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurred a little to late
But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing
A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible
That's the moment in my pants I started messing
Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness
What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing
I was grabbed by a couple of thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash
Tied up and flown off to the smallest of islands
Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree
All because to insanity they took a liking
When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun
Don't know how many walls they had me climbing
Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not to late
When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it
I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to me
And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
I think I just needed
some Space to myself
so I snatched up the Telescope
off of the shelf
Fogbound, an Envelope
Packed with Parched Paper
Periwinkle Periscope
Crepuscular Vapor
permanent figures
a vial and dropper
kaleidoscope lens
a beaker and stopper
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
In his room he grasps the threadbare coverlet,
The thinness of his fingers exaggerated by knotted joints
not unlike the slubs of coarse cotton in his clutches.
No sun shines in this windowless cell.
Night offers no stars to count.
No luminous clock keeps time.
Unrested, his head in strange surroundings lifts to look.
"This is not my bed.
These are not my possessions.
The glass does not reflect my image."
The lamplight's glare offends his eyes.
The blue beaker has a sharp edge.
This unfamiliar room has seen a single week of usage
meant for new beginnings to find his feet.
Yesterday, his leaden slippers stopped shuffling.
A slam!
Someone is talking too loud.
No-one can hear him silently screaming
as he passes through the closed door.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 11:12 AM UTC
Dee-dee tugged
at the hem
of my long white coat,
as I stood
on the children's unit
of the mental hospital,
hands by my side,
looking around me.
He tugged again
with his small hand
clenched tight
on the hem.
What do you want
Dee-dee? I asked.
I looked down at him
his fingers clenched tight.
He pulled me after him,
saying nothing.
I followed him,
walking in small steps
so as not to step on him.
We came to the half door
of the ward kitchen,
where he pointed
with his a finger
of his other hand
to a plastic beaker
on the side.
Dee-dee, he said
in monotone,
pointing jaggedly.
I nodded,
and he released
my coat hem,
and I walked in,
and closed the half-door
after me,
and picked up a beaker,
and held it up.
This colour?
He expressed nothing,
just stared.
I picked up another beaker
of a different colour,
and held it up
for him to see.
He stared,
and said Dee-dee.
I took the yellow beaker
to the bottles of squash
on the side.
Orange? I asked.
He expressed nothing,
just gazed at me.
I picked up
the blackcurrant squash,
and held it up.
Blackcurrant?
he stared at me
as though I
was a numbskull.
Dee-dee,
he said pointing
at the lemon juice
on the side.
I poured lemon juice
into the beaker,
and went to the fridge,
and poured water
from a plastic jug,
and then half filled
the beaker.
I handed it to him
over the half-door.
He took it with both small hands,
and looked inside
the beaker,
then sipped a mouthful,
and walked off slowly
with the concentration
of a tight rope walker
across high wire.
No thanks or gratitude
or show of further interest
if any or I existed or would,
he stood by a window
with his beaker of juice,
and sipped,
his small hands clutching
the beaker with little concern,
no sensation to know
or history to learn.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
Time to change myself once more
It's my mantra every Sunday
Be good with food and have less wine
This always starts on Monday
Commence with gentle exercise
And eat a smaller ration
By Tuesday this is going well
I'm full of strength and passion
It's Wednesday I am feeling weak
I want to drink some claret
I tell myself to carry on
So instead I eat a carrot
I put myself to bed that night
Hoping not to suffer
Tomorrow is another day
Of course I'll be much tougher
By Thursday I am back on track
I'm feeling rather dandy
I force myself to eat less snacks
And have a little brandy
By Friday it is getting tough
I'm feeling so much weaker
I pour a glass of cold crisp wine
And then fill another beaker
Come Saturday I am off the plan
I've gelled into my sofa
I fill my face with tasty treats
And turn in to a loafer
The sabbath day I carry on
I may as well keep eating
Hereafter I will start again
And do it without cheating
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
Auntie took me
to the large hut
where the wives of soldiers
met for tea and a chat
(or gossip)
there was big black stove
in the center of the room
and a big urn
over in the small kitchen
where women were serving
cups of tea and cakes or biscuits
there was a lot of noise
and voices and baby's crying
and a few kids like me
under 5 or 5 years old
there's Milly
Auntie said
so we went over
to where Milly was sitting
with her little daughter Elsie
Auntie and Milly
started talking
and I sat next to Auntie
and Elsie sat
the other side
of her mum Milly
staring at me
why don't you two
go and get a lemonade
or orange juice and biscuits
Milly said
Elsie pulled a face
not with him
she said
don't be daft
Benny's a good boy
now do as you are told
and go get some
drinks and biscuits
Milly said firmly
I looked at Auntie
then at Elsie
all right
Elsie said glumly
and we went across the room
to where women
where serving
yes dearies
the woman said
what can I get you?
I want an orange juice
and biscuit please
Elsie said
you'll have to ask
for yourself
she said to me moodily
the woman got
a small beaker of orange juice
and a biscuit tin
of broken biscuits
and Elsie helped herself
staring at me
I asked the woman
for some lemonade
and a biscuit
and while she
was getting it for me
I said to Elsie
you can around
to my auntie's place
and we can play
with my toy soldiers
she sipped her orange juice
looking at me
the woman gave me
a beaker of lemonade
and I took
a few broken biscuits
in my other hand
and stood looking at Elsie
I don't want to play
with toy soldiers
I'm a girl
girls' play with dolls
and skip
not play with boy's toys
and she walked off
back to where Auntie
and Milly sat talking
and sat down
I stood watching her
I can come and play
with your toys
I said
she frowned at me
boys don't play
with girl's toys
she said
and my doll
doesn't like you
Elsie don't be so horrible
Milly said
if Benny wants to come
and play he will
or you'll get a slap
Elsie frowned
and looked at the floor
she was no more friendlier
than she was before.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
Is there
a deeper Darkness
Or
Is there
a deeper Lightness
waiting?
Abscesses of our minds
not withstanding
What hole
thing
R u?
Wavering in the light
pixelated weak
R u carried
or do you stand?
Is there
an edge
to be had
Or is it
just an occupation
from which
to distract us
and see
tear filled acts
of confusion
celebrated
clearly we are
winning
our game
to be righteous
Which is
to lose
and somehow
win over time
Unerasable blues
and salt
seeds of continuous
self-doubt
Potato chips
to dark fasting
Crayons to an
iron radiator
Socks to a nebulae
clenched in birth
is a song
radiating
We are the deeper
folds
respected by fabric
aficionados
Creases in everything
shape themselves
on our tongues
in our emanations
We are the shore
climbing for awhile
to the land
then back to the sea
We are the circle
almost back
skip that illusion
lean into the swing
Break into another
beaker of stinking next
pour it on yourself
suffer early and often
this continuity
a lie in a lie
in a genre
you choose
for breakfast
crunchy
is how
you prefer
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
Earth, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
And I dont know how to take cover
Not from rain or stinging cold
But from those just like me
Who walk above and right past me
Grounded to the same surface
But none seem to be any closer to me
I am silenced, cries heard only by tree and concrete
Help me, Earth, please
Sky, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
Man needs not the like of me
They chose my fate as such
Fallen and wounded
Prayers for fire in the skies
Drink is what I chose now
Since I can no longer slate my thirst from you
I will die by the cruel darkwood imitator
That men invented to betray you
Help me, Sky, please
Fire, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
And lanterns cant warm me
Scraps are my home and hearth
And that is no comfort for any
I long for your touch
But since outside is no longer my choice
Ill warm my insides with atomized flame
Beaker bottle and batch aid me in feeling and unfeeling you
Help me, Fire, please
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Bone needle,
Jarred in wooden skin.
Silver thread glistens
In murky crimson sap, blood-akin.
Disciple Ajörn,
Squints beyond yonder.
Sap oozing in steady streams,
Into High Witch Åy'lla's beaker.
'Dryad, dryad, come
Foundling lost in Mireswamp.
Bless the Father of Lies,
Solitude begone.
Breathe fluid,
This wound I inflict.
Seep, drench, drown me
Beside you this moon I sit'
Seven quarters turned,
Blighted, glazed and dead.
Moon spanned all skies,
While Ajörn lay in a stranger's bed.
Reckoning came,
As sudden as his unfortunate arrival.
Witch and Dryad stirred ,
This night the moon, in denial.
'Stop, please?'
Hungry cackle, a shift of pose.
Needle removed, so gently
Soulsap collected in whole.
Åyll'a's bones, deft, finger blades
Nipping and knotting,
Slipping and sliding,
Silver of her thread, red of his being.
'Now we begin'
Sap and thread entwined.
Needles countless descended,
Pain silencing her whines.
Elder craft, this magick,
Dirge of the deathless.
Blood-bone colour of threads
Weaving over her *******
Weave, weave, my gentle love
What was two can be one.
Bounds known not to sentient life
Awake once more beyond ****** strife.
Through her skin, by her hand,
His sap she sewed unplanned.
Rivulets and lanes of High Witch blood,
Danced black and dark over skin, bland.
A tiara made flesh,
A finger bound in rings,
Ruby fluid flowed freely
Dancing with it's silver twin.
Moans ensued,
Pursuing now departed cries.
The Ritual of The Weave,
One death from being complete.
Like sawdust, he fell,
Strong disciple Ajörn.
Soul, sap, life taken in turns,
An undead Warlock was born.
Not corporeal, fatally surreal,
An existence wrought in threads
Strung by unearthly hands,
A partner in despair and dread.
Dryad lost,
Witch no more.
Two lives threaded
As one, forevermore.
'I'
'I'
'am'
'am'
Wheezed two voices in unison
'we'
'are'
Chanted the Witchlock in delusion.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
"Man is the alembic of art"
That's what Mr. Thoreau said.
A - L - E - M - B -I - C
Hold it right there!
Just what the hell is that?
Well, OK in a word, an alembic is a still.
So the man at the pond is telling us,
making whisky and poems is the same deal.
Take a *** of sludgy words,
boil is so it shoots out the cap
and into a tube.
With a little luck
only good stuff condenses in the beaker -
"Thoreau-ly" purified.
Hopefully it's a good year.
Still, (sic) your verbal whisky can be
no better than the sludge you start with.
Bottoms up!
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Mr. Celest, won't you please entrance with your stories full of dropping names that I bet no one else could recall, even if the plausible is true?
Long men have a long time to build upon the craft of yarn-spinning , promising the archway, but never daring to get in touch with powerful ways of listening to others.
This prince has a story, too.
The crime of our age is how people live so long that they stop living to fantasize about the old days which were never as glamoruos as we recall.
The only thing you talk about is what you used the think about, when you wished upon a shooting star that once trailed above the ocean blue.
This knave has a story, too.
An automatic pratter or the vocals in the air are not impressive to someone like me who has seen the sins and suffered wages of the ages.
The reason for your phonics is as empty as your wallet, but your name is never in the liner notes to the teary songs you try to sing.
This man has a story, too.
There is a beaker on the burner and it bubbles quite a lot, much like a festering boil, and the words that stream along are never ending.
You might learn there are surprises in the world still left to make you wonder, still there to give you feeling so you have enjoyment in your life.
This sage knows magic, too.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC