"beakers" poems
There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union
it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals
camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)
there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours
it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
A Friday night of imbued strangers
Streets full of all walks of people
Mostly staggered and tipsy
Haggered and narrow minded
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of rejection and temptation
I couldn't give my cash to enter a joint
Thoroughly rejecting a norm construct
Unhumbled and judgmental
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of inspiration and joy
Where I saw a mirror of myself on the streets
Vagabound souls sat begging for a today
Justice and truth prevails
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of me sat on the ground
At the entrance of a busy closed shop
Begging for the homeless soul as people sneer
The abuse and hate ejected
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of broken promises
When all they do is try to have ******
People set traps of unfriendly gesture
The rotten and pompous society
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of me wooing the drunk
Melodious symphony of "change please"
Negativity beakers but we made money baibe
A reflection of minimalism
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of concluded perception
Their souls touched me, they can go back a time
They try but have no strength within
Sour love was the wound that brought them hassle
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
It's not a Friday night anymore, the dawn smiles
I have a warm home and access to facilities
They have no options and crack is their hope
Police huddles and societal direct abuse
As they sing a song for strangers to listen
For your smile and talk can be the only hope they got
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Every corner you turn
is another story to be told
eventually the truth will unfold
and will start to rapidly burn
rumors are started by attention seekers
they are as useless as broken beakers
dont hide when people find out the truth
because listen here im coming for you
"ill run through your town
and shut you down"
No more nonsense
It is time to treat eachother with respect
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil.
Through seventeen (and a half) years of clumsiness
The universe, it's always whispered to her
"However careful you might try to be
Sometimes things, they'll fall out of your clumsy hands
Never on purpose, no satisfactory reason
Leaving you with melancholy ruins.
Sometimes things, they can be fixed
With a little glue and a lot of patience
So fix them before they're lost and
Be ever more careful thereon.
But sometimes things, they can't be fixed
Not with glue nor with patience
And broken they will forever be
So sweep up the pieces gently and
Cast them away sans regret."
She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil,
Trust, hearts and friendships.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.
She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.
She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.
Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.
Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed
anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.
She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
I’m sitting in chemistry,
I’m dying to ***
I raised my hand,
But the teacher couldn’t see.
I broke beakers and spilled chemicals,
But he still couldn’t hear my plea.
If I take a ****** on a cylinder,
I’m sure he would notice me!
—Thomas James Written on April 7, 2010
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
They told him to be a carpenter.
His stupid black fingers could never form equations of substantial value;
they were simply meant to grow callused and rough,
like his soul,
as they built the large houses he could never afford.
They told him to be a painter.
He lacked the skill to be an inventor-
to create light or wind or space like his God.
His hands could never create sound
as they floated through air in front of an orchestra.
They could only transform the house his brother built into a color he couldn't spell.
They told him to be a miner.
The coal could blend with his skin,
hopefully thick enough to smother him out of society.
The soot from his skin would cover the beakers and test tubes,
making him incapable of performing the experiments necessary
to develop a more reasonable resource in a lab that could save the world from death.
They told him to be a mechanic.
His hands were meant for hard labor, oil and grease,
not healing ailing bodies as their organs began to falter from an automobile collision.
He was too dumb to save a life;
he could only fix a car for a dead corpse.
They told him what he could be
in order to tell him he was incapable of greater things
as he held his dark face with darker features in his hands, weak from wiping tears.
People build their dreams based on encouragement-
this man knew no such words.
He told me I would be a doctor.
My hands were meant for healing hearts and multiplying white blood cells,
as well as lives and smiles.
I would save a nation, a dying breed of people
because God has given me His own hands.
He told me I would be a lawyer.
My hunger for justice would fuel a revolution
and all would know their innocence held true value.
The rights of men were of sincere importance and I would protect them at all costs,
especially young men told to be painters and carpenters,
because I was one of the few with the integrity to do so.
He told me I would be a president.
My words would meet a standard higher than those on the political spectrum.
I would part the seas flooding a nation
because I had been blessed by the Holy Waters of God.
The theory that peace was in a land too far away would be broken
as I carried the world to the Promise Land.
He told me I would be an astronaut.
I would defy the status quo while defying gravity
as I became the greatest pioneer since Sacagawea.
My brilliant mind would fill with every star I peeled from the sky to light my path to Heaven.
And I would show the globe how to fly despite the odds.
He told me what I could be in order to tell me I was capable of great things
as my small, tan hand intertwined with his dark hand, callused and rough from raising a child of God.
He knew that people build their dreams based on encouragement-
and I know the words he never had the chance to.
--For my Dad
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 5:28 PM 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 fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
1.4k
You know that in the silence there is a volume of sound,
A whisper of the decadent falling to the ground,
Their jewels and their poise,
The china faces and steady stances crumbling to the floor of marble like broken toys,
A weeping victim now laughs at the corrupt as they fail,
Their alibis and cover-lies aren't fit for humans now.
They collapsed under the weight of deceit, that decadent class,
Of champagne flutes and crystal glass,
Now standard thrift-shop plastic beakers,
Stalking 'round in second hand sneakers,
No noise from the debauched, not a sound of relevance,
The bliss of watching it unfold, the descent of decadence.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
You should never use a ruler - it is not the length
of your scars that matters, but the depth. Volume
matters, too, but beakers are never big enough -
you could distill all of your tears and they would
still fill an ocean. And if you try to measure the
decibels of the crashing waves you will not hear
the whole story. Instead, listen to their echoes
in the hollows of seashells. Weigh their words
by the ounces of truth. The voices may taste
like distance, but the tide will wash away your
footprints in the sand before you count them.
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
Banging heads upon the wall all *****
Scrunched up in a corner with dust falling
For it must
Tomb tickers break open their beakers
Feeling what it must be like to be a God
Goading over fools gold discovered at the
Bottom of the ocean
Remembering their pasts, praying that it
Never existed
A fortune cookie lightly breaks
And a tear falls from it
Leaving a small watery mark in the hot sizzling dirt
Fortune smiles as men run amok with guns, blood and prayer beads
Blazing
Blazing
Blazing
Fancy hearing the siamese cat and alla' that
She and he were oh so great at the party
Weren't they Molly?
Name that means nothing says everything
But everything is the bottom of the barrel
The watermelon harping over a sail boat
Dirt speckled pomegranetes listen intently
In the rotting afternoon showery sun
Solioquoy membrane meters with a piano balancing
In a full swing and in teter
Atop the highest feather, a fire eater
Nonsensical romance that blinks their eyes and it is gone
So gone
So far and so long
Ripped tendons tenderly sell their wares
All buttons, miss matched pieces of tore out hair
She was the one I loved best, the one at the fair
Oleander olives had hung from her wretched head
While the television played Oprah
I was in Ethipioa praying for another month of rain
Reeling through the season in treason
A prisoner in my own mind
The foggy ruins of time
Off and far away
She said just couldn't obey what the Lord wanted her to say
Oh Joan, you burned so fast, so quick, so steadily
Never screaming, only beaming
Members of the church swore their were moments
That you were balanced and the opposite of torment
A letter opened
But never read
A letter received
But quickly thrown away as though secretly deceived
Pole dancers show their goods as they should
Much like drinkers whom some believe
To be great thinkers
But I ask the wind what she thinks
She doesn't hesitate
As she coyly
Winks
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 11:06 AM UTC
You need to use vocals
To spread a message that is hopeful
You need to use vocals
To create a point that is focal
You need them
Like R.E.M.
A message from your heart
That goes through your brain
It can be called quality art
Once it reflects inner pain
That runs deep through your voice
And your lyrical choice
You don't need scientists with beakers
Or super loud speakers
You don't need to make a keynote speech
Or grab for things that are out of reach
You just need a lesson
Taught through confession
There are wonderful things done instrumentally
But I want to focus on someone instead of me
Because thinking through someone else's words
Seems more productive
Rather than repeating myself so nothing is stirred
Which feels somewhat reductive
If you have something to say
Speak up
If you can't find a way
Drink up
Music based on emotion instead of thought
But be careful to not get mindlessly caught
Until you're starving
From culturally carving
Out anything that is strange
Until you have a truncated range
Of empathetic understanding
That's one way of landing
On a lame existence
For plain persistence
Art will always reflect life
They share the same plight
The best way to communicate
Is not to ruminate
But to speak with your mouth
Before your mind goes south
End the depressing deflation
Through simple human relation
Your gift of pain
Becomes my drain
My rhythmic refrain
From ending this game
Please allow me to hear you
So I may no longer fear you
It doesn't matter if you're not local
I'll relate to you through your vocals
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
There is a
Welcoming without
Spiritual coaxing
Between us
Natural and wonderful
Wherever I am
This is my home
Wherever you are
You are never alone
How can I leave my home
When it is everywhere
And you are there?
Would it be
That we are
Matter and energy
Combined in our
Consciousness
Of one
Protected and
Wrapped
Into a bouquet of
Infinite potentialities
As every star in very shape
And every color
Is discovered
In the universal playground
Of our outer space
Shooting across the skies
Of our inexhaustible
Vision from within
We are
Resonating from behind
Our human disguise
Coexisting in
Every ripple of water
Glimmering without
Exception
Melting
In every grain of sand
That shines
Beneath the sun
We are
One
And
There is a
Welcoming without
Spiritual coaxing
Between us
Natural and wonderful
Wherever I am
This is my home
Wherever you are
You are never alone
How can I leave my home
When it is everywhere
And you are there?
What is looking
Out of your eyes
Is in me
You are the flower
That praises
The spirit that travels
Up my spine
With the fragrance of
Forgiveness
Fervently
You are the
Pure light that flows down
In streams upon every single hair
Of my enlightened crown
Igniting the everlasting soul
Of this human being
With the windswept
Potions of scientific
Insurmountable measures
Beakers of tenderness
Carrying our undeniable
Unconditional love-treasures
Toward a paramount presence
That free will floats
Into a cloud of what is
Eternally wise and
Unbroken
Free from damage
Cradled in
Supernatural
Light
We are not asleep
Or awake
We are the silent
Earthquake
What is looking
Out of your eyes
Is in me
You are the flower
That praises
The spirit that travels
Up my spine
With the fragrance of
Forgiveness
Fervently
In sweet
Serenity
Arise as
I surrender
To thee
And
Inner
Peace
© tHE tERRY tREE
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
If you were the same me
I would have known how
everything goes now
she stares at the ceiling
li(v)es full of meaning
and somewhat deceiving
the way you look
sliding down
running town
looking 'round
meaning
life is short
when i caught
beakers down
bleeding
breaking beneath the waves
unknowing as it is to you
i will send the ocean into
your cavi
ty
la la la la la la la lie
ala carte somehow,
why
is it
so hard
looking at
me
to see that you truly look past
me
seeing circles
pulling circles
running perfect little
circles
i can adorn you
with your crown of thorns
born of unborn
igno
rant
suffering
this will not end till I say it's over
like is the dreaming, not the doing
if i could erase the scratches of time
bleed them all out, and do it again
all for you
all for you
this is not what I want to do
if i knew
something to do
i'm caught right here in the middle with you
glancing envy
turning so pale
chasing your tail
this isn't the end
i have gone so far
this is not over
and
look at me all you like
i will not forget this
i will not forgive this
laying the fist down
changing it all around
i know what I want
yet i can't have it
you can't know it
she doesn't see it
he couldn't be it
i am the crown of your thorns
unturned by endless stones. I am the reaping, i am the creaking, floors in your youth. here is my shoulder, there is your hand, there is his hand, i can not end this with my shouting endless dreams. flowers on flowers, gardens on gardens, fields upon hills and mountains in silk. this is so fast. this is so cold. i can't be too old
or be too young
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
Iridescent green liquid
Dripping from a factory sealed cannister
Not for pregnant women or the faint of heart
Not for the ones who grip the stair bannister
Only for the fit and the strong
To help achieve maximum efficiency
Only for those whose legs are long
Enough to reach the stars from the ground they can only see
Caution
Warning
Attention
The flies are swarming
Your flesh is rotting
But your body keeps running
Touch it to your lips
And it'll grant you your best
Implanted from the laboratory
Take it all down and put yourself to the test
Nothing can stop you now
You're not running on empty anymore
Your stomach turns sour
But you're no longer a bore
Now you've got the means
Now you've got the scene
Now you've got the capacity
Now you can succeed
But only because of test tubes
And only because of beakers
Only because of brakers
Only because of white coats
Only because of med school
Only because of playing the part of the fool
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:14 PM UTC
Pink
Slide down,
Dissolve
and rise; synthetic
inspiration
manufactured by strangers with
Clipboards
and labcoats
and beakers.
And I don't mind, no --
I don't mind your origin at all.
Only the destination.
Come to me.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
We met over beakers
In the back of the class
Both knowledge seekers
Young scientists
Looking for answers
To the stars and beyond
My sweet little Alchemist
Has it going on
Mixing solutions
With the solutions she finds
Answering questions
To where mystery's do hide
Her scientific equations
How could I ever miss
That smooth chemical sensation
From my sweet little Alchemist
With a little of this and a little of that
Always adding just the right touch
Wherever it is and wherever it's at
What she adds is never to much
If you need to find her
She's at the top of my periodic list
In case you need a reminder
She's my sweet little Alchemist
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
"As if everybody knows
What I'm talking about,
As if everybody
would know
exactly what
I was talking about"
Paul Simon
<><><>
test the hypothesis,
get out the glass beakers,
mmmmix the acid and the base,
wear those rubber gloves
and with goggles on,
always paying penpal attention,
we have the first aid kit and
the fire extinguisher
nearby
and handy
As if everybody
would know
exactly
what
I was talking about
what
I am talking about
is self~care
and on a dare,
whispering,,
a modest scream,
an ego soul statistic~all
@it's ok,
"love thyself"
everybody
knows,
...as if...
....as if....
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
It is our duty as human beings to inspire
To spark in others an undying desire
So let us pick up our pens and pencils
Our paints, chisels, and stencils
Our microphones, drums, and musical tools
And our books, beakers, and new found rules.
Let us make a path for greatness to follow
So we can make a much berighter tomorrow.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
i wish there was a warning
i could wear around my neck,
the kind you would recognize
from the beakers in your lab.
careful: volatile substance.
maybe then
you wouldn't be so shocked
over my habit to disappear,
my body evaporating into air
and leaving nothing behind
to even let you know
i had ever been there at all.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC