"bucketful" poems
When you see your parents fight
Your mom on her knees
Your dad begging please
When you hear your parents fight
As you sit on the chair,
Faintly hearing their cries of despair
"I don't deserve this."
Does anyone do?
You sit across your father
Listen to the story, his side
You go to your mother
Her clothes packed, she's made up her mind
Turmoil stirs inside you
If this can happen to them,
Will it certainly happen to me?
Will I make my children cry?
Bucketful tears, their eyes turn dry
Will my husband fell defeated, lost his cause
Hopeless and defeated?
OR
Could it be
My children seeing clearly
The lack of tears on my face
Again, silently hoping
This is just another phase
Will I see my husband go out
To his car? Drive away
to the sunset, with him
Half my heart.
When you see your parents fight
Both of them on opposite sides
And you struggle to see
Which to go find
You go to your mother
Plead for a second chance
"Don't leave, please stay."
But she's decided so there's nothing to say.
Your dad holds you close
The Lord will fix this,
Just you wait and see."
I, waiting 'til we'll be happy
When you hear your parents fight
No, you don't hear
Don't know how to feel
with the silence, fill
the missing words
You go up to your room
And write this poem
Because there's nothing you can do
When your parents fight
For at the same time, you, too
Want to take flight
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
the moon was chasing the shadows of the forest,
while the night scurried into the black fields,
placing a small toe into a sorrowful grey cloud
the wind hardly more than a whisper.
and then midnight unwound, blue shadows on grass,
the fields green as dark emeralds,
the clouds dreaming of a soft moon,
and the eye drawn skywards,
filled with forgotten dreams
the wind began to hurry
birds crammed into a bucketful of sky
like flapping pages hinged to a spine.
welcome then to the stomach of night
to moonflower and the bright light that spins
uncovering the stones that lie in the dark moss
revealing the surreal landscape to a broken moon.
welcome then to our love, even more surreal,
as we hold each other close, and shiver like
strange plants wrapped into the black ink of the night
as the world unfolds to kisses and wilderness.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
They say you fell into the creek.
Well you did, but not by accident.
You fell from the willow,
Like the tears you so often shed of late.
Life was too much
So you breathed the water like it was air,
Gasping between unheard sobs.
Drop by drop by bucketful of current
Moved between the folds of your dress
And pulled you in deeper and deeper.
The wreaths of flowers entangled around
Your wrists, your hair, your neck;
Beautiful nooses,
Symbolic of despair and misdirection.
Your life left you
Like a hey nonny, nonny
As innocence fled from Denmark
To the safety of inexistence.
How she wanted to pull you free,
But didn't.
This was your final escape.
You deserved it.
And now you lie
In a grave dug by comic relief
And filled with regret.
An unmarked grave
For an unmarked soul
Tainted by nothing,
But the wet mark of suicide.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC
"Let me do it for the many worlds I simultaneously exist
as birds and bees, beasts of pray, majestic tree or tiny organism
human beings of diverse persuasions , male , female, inhabiting
in parallel time lines, sinner and saint seeking salvation together"
He delves deep in the heart of blue, fathomless, abyss, a country new
where meanings differ, voices are petering to the valley of silence.
The rivers are silver bands, mountain peaks soft pillows,
the clouds sheets fresh and crisp, spread gently over
the undulating water bed of seas, so inviting, soporific,
fire lovingly ripens the fruits of temptation that hangs from branches,
drink the bubbly white wine of rain pouring in to your cup,
breezes are nice silk, towels to dry one softly
after sweating too much, when ends the frenzied search
through the mazes, for each other, in the play ground of
wolves and panthers, friendly beyond belief.
Day and night, one comes to know are made from the same cloth,
wearing a day easy is difficult as evening comes closer,
it gets soiled, however careful one is, needs to stuff it in a container
the dark sea, tame like a bucketful of water, it takes so long to clean.
Morning, time to wear the new dress, embark on a new day again
we are men and women here, creatures of circumstances, in disguises
don't ever pretend there is a world real, and you exist here just for fun
like a fish coming up for air, now he surfaces with a sly happy smile.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Come to me by the moonlight, Beloved,
While the stars shine down this dark well
deep in the wilderness of my heart.
Come and draw the bucket, Beloved,
lift some sorrow slowly; take it away with you,
Empty this well a little, by the moonlight.
Smile as you turn from the well, Beloved,
As your shadow curls around the niches,
Let the bucketful of emptiness come back to me.
Each drop you take from this heart, Beloved,
Why does it always remain in here?
Why does it stay with me, still?
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
1.3k
In a time before people, at the dawn of man kind.
"They" were brewing us, body and mind.
A sprinkle of wit and a pinch of good luck.
"Please pass down the emotional muck".
Some of "they" were good at what they had to do.
Some of them less exact, careless in making our stew.
Going to the extremes was a favorite of a few.
And that is why Some of us are very blue.
"Ill throw in A pinch of zest and a bucketful of sorrow, and an
Annoying tendency to always want to borrow."
"My favorite recipe is: charisma, good looks and toxic waste"
"Ya know! The ones that usually attract the goodhearted that are keen to make haste"
"And my favorite one is for the ones always pursuing what isn't meant to be"
"The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of ambition I think i'll put in three"
Such is the talk in their heavenly sphere
Perhaps things aren't all that different down here?
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
One year ago today, Christina Grimmie was taken from us. I remember sitting in my best friend's room watching her videos and saying "How does she even hit those notes!?!?" And since then, I've been there with Christina every step of the way. From her first Twitter account, to Find Me, to winning the iHeartRadio contest. Even her Hannah Montana days. (Lol). When I discovered Christina, I was immediately inspired to become more like her music wise. I started singing more. I started playing piano more. I learned a whole bucketful of new instruments because she inspired me to. And then one day, she answered a snapchat and just kind of started replying to me. We weren't at all super close, but close enough. Not only was she an inspiration, she was kind enough to be a friend. This year has been a weird year for Team Grimmie. It's been very confusing. But I couldn't be more proud of Christina than I am right now. She's come so far, even after she passed. I'm so proud of you, girl.
Love, me.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
The 4th in my infamous COUNT ORLOK sequence
The sweat pours down my back
As I pound into her
Grunting like a hippo
(me, not her, as corpses tend not to grunt,
at least in my wide experience as a corpse-shagger)
And her bloodless body
Gets another load of my filth
Up the back trapdoor;
And, to think, I still have
A good bucketful of blood
To drink for supper
When I get back home,
Unless it's coagulated by now,
In which case I shall be well ****** off.
And may have to send out for a chinkie takeaway instead.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Hardened to experience
Like gum beneath a chair,
I cannot explain
This lasting hunger for simple fictions.
Yet prompt me as you tried so long ago
To imitate the joker in the balcony
Who shouts “I’m gonna be sick!”
And launches a bucketful of mushroom soup
Over the railing,
To this day I forget my only line.
The gestures, too.
And the sound effects?
The mind’s ear can’t hear them anymore,
Let alone vibrate to them in Sensurround.
But I’m still slouching down in familiar dark,
Feet stuck to the floor, waiting for the previews to end,
Hoping that a moving picture conjures
Something whose absence has become
So powerful that I begin to think
It’s really the presence of something else.
The aroma of our time together
So many years ago lingers
Like the faint odor of mushroom soup.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
I was faced with a conundrum just the other day.
You see, a girl that I had fancied -- she took my heart away
She cut it open it with a rather rusty sharp utensil
then she penned the most beautiful lines with that sanguine pencil
Her writing with my AB Positive were delicate and wonderful
as I lay upon the ground, seeping by the bucketful
While I will admit that I was all manners of distressed
I also couldn't help to be tremendously impressed.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
Be happy,
Don't be crappy,crappy, ******
****** makes you snappy,
Snappy snatches away all the trace
Of the glow on your face.
Be joyful,
Don't be mournful, mournful, mournful,
Tears falling bucketful,
People will say,"Look at her,so woeful.
Be confident,
Don't be diffident,diffident,diffident,
Diffident makes you immature,
Gives you a mousy nature.
Always cheer,
Never sneer,sneer,sneer,
People away from you will veer,
You will be left alone dear.
Laughter is the best medicine,
It boosts your adrenaline,
Many friends you will win.
Laughter is infectious,
It is so contagious,
Happiness will be rampant,
That no sorrow can dampen.
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
for the boat:
wood.
the more fragrant the better.
maple, perhaps
but
pine
would do fine.
a sail.
of African cloth
and some oars with handles
made from gold-and-silver ladles.
pixie dust.
ten bags, at least
borrow some from Tink.
that would be simpler,
i think.
we're read-- oh!
i almost forgot.
don't leave behind your knapsack
and copper cooking ***
you'll also need
an extra dose of courage
a tablespoonful of faith
two cups of questions
and a bucketful of dreams.
now, you're ready.
who needs a map?
destination:
anywhere
and
everywhere.
you have your boat
you have your dreams
impossible is not
what
impossible seems.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
Super-size me please
Cola by the bucketful
Double-width coffin.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Ready meals and empty beds.
Playing games inside their heads.
Want to sleep, but only weep.
With secrets thus eternal keep.
They have no feelings in their eyes.
A bucketful of seeming lies.
This a stroke of sorrow.
Mournful dirge.
Contrite purge.
All of this means nothing much.
Putting my pen to work.
Had the day off and being a ****
Relieving boredom as only I can.
Funny little woman me, not very young but totally *****
(c)LIVVI
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
There was no silver spoon
Just a shovel
The same one my grandmother
and great-grandmother had held
The same one my mother handed me when she told me to dig her a grave
Because she was too tired to finish it herself
Already got half way through excavating but the pain was too excruciating
The women in my family have spent their entire lives being dug out
Their chest are hollow caverns from the careless tourists who have hollowed them
Shovelful by shovelful
Bucketful by bucketful
My mother did not raise me
Just a skeleton that wore her skin
Empty within
The caves of her eyes cast shadows on her cheeks
The crevice of her lips a ravine that ran straight to hell
A ravine that had swallowed fools whole
Silver-lined tongue and coal-pocked jaw
I have I inherited her suspicion
Her hollow-coldness
Her mystery
Her safe and sound
Underground
In the dark
Where no one can hear the flutter-thump of the bats caught in your stomach
I have inherited her wisdom
Her wit and passion
Her fortitude and ingenuity
Hidden in the dim halls of my veins like jewels in darkness
I was told to protect these little gems of myself
These pieces that I could never get back
Told that once someone found them, they would keep taking and taking until I was truly empty
I was told to never give away all my secrets
Because then I’d become another part of their histories and not their ongoing mysteries
Another tourist attraction, walked through again and again until their feet wore a path so deep in my skin I’d never be able to right myself
I didn’t listen
I let her in
Let her cave-paint me with stories lost to time
Let her explore where no one had gone before
Miner’s daughter, lovely clementine did not leave much else behind
But she did not take more than I had wanted to give her
Did not leave me empty and cold, robbed of riches once untold
So when the next one came
I welcomed her with open arms
Cradled her against waterfall-crashing heartbeat
Made her a place of her own
Gave all I could give without ever feeling that I was selling pieces of who I was
I put down the shovel
And let myself be loved
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
Love is not for me ;
about a dream ago i swore id let my heart be free
I lied
debating my elated compromise...
At least the ground had my back
no energy to move they surround and attack
I failed ;
my dream of touching mouth to holy grail..
Dumping bucketful's into cups
****** ;
Forgetting older lessons getting stuck
starved ;
Never did i think id find my way
i swore that i could use you as a bridge from my decay..
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
la la la la
is this what love feels like
or what I want it
to feel like when it comes
slam-bamming in
the snigger on the stairs
first saxophone note
my throat
knows the right words
speak
of succulent fruits
count the seconds
it takes
for our fingers to crumple
in warm baths
look
toothbrushes together
own side of the bed
I have a side
where I sleep
in the madness of you
la la la la
I can’t sing
but I must have swallowed a pill
or a bucketful
of elation
look at me go ha ha
does it crunch as an apple
is it flat pack furniture
cup of coffee
in the same café
steam to sip sip sip
my temperature spiking
blood thunderstorm
in my ears
coloured hair
new language
list of I’m becomings
you’re becomings
oh darling
not pumpkin never pumpkin
lyrically I’m losing it
love like this
or not at all my love
maybe a shelf
without books
maybe a house we paint
or a song
how it starts
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
By Tuesday they'll let me vote
and stop protecting me.
Push me out into the big wide world
and forget me. Who will love me then?
When all my hair has fallen out
and they let me buy
big bottles of ***** to soothe myself.
Who will love me then?
Still vulnerable, but discounted by them.
****** out on my **** into the wild
with sharp words and a bucketful
of angry tears.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
A note I cannot play.
Nor can I sing as a Nightingale in flight.
Love a guitar that's tuned up to sing for me.
As long as another sings the songs.
The joy of magic music.
Played by an artistic maestro.
A multitude of pretty sounds.
Choice words may come to me easy,
Beg me, I pray not that you ask of me to sing.
For I have the rhythm of a strangled cat.
And the banshee howling in the yard speaks much better than me.
My vocals they will torture you.
Your eardrums assaulted beyond belief.
The moment I stop singing, a bucketful of sweet relief.
Once I sang a tuneless poem the room it roared with laughter.
My ad-lib singing poem one mega deaf disaster!
(C) Livvi
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC