"buckets" poems
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Season of sun and sand and sea,
Holiday time for you and me.
Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,
Don’t forget to wear sun-block.
Sitting idly reading Keats,
Watching kids with buckets and spades;
Sparrows with their frantic tweets,
Flying high above the glades.
Oh it’s great to be so free,
No more snow or ice for me.
Even mugginess is okay,
So long as it’s warm throughout the day.
Swimming in that so cool pool,
Sure beats sweating back in school.
Summer is my favourite month,
Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!
Nothing rhymes with month you know,
But let’s forget about that snow.
Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,
And keep a beer within our reach.
Paul Butters
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
would you listen or laugh at me
for claiming love's an ocean?
neither a knife, nor a blindfold
...but a sea.
there's a human-borne catastrophe.
cast your eye upon those with no share.
the contents of their buckets
are polluted and impure
yet all but 5%
goes unexplored.
do you find yourself choking in your sleep?
why watch the waves from safe dry ground
when you could delve in deep?
do you live in fear of unchartered seas
and life still left unfound?
are you overheating if only not to drown?
we 'love addicts' are water children.
i run outside and taste the rain.
let's go! let's drink! let's swim! let's bathe
and watch it seep into our pores
-- it escapes me how you stay indoors!
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
Sundays on the ranch are somethin',
Just after morning chores are done,
I head up to the house on a dead run,
I've called the herd and put the buckets out,
Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son,"
Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun;
Old dog is baying loud to add some fun....
Meanwhile, at the house,
The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out,
When I come in, they clear the bathroom out,
So I can get a shave and morning shower,
And off we'll head to church in half an hour.
Or so we think....
It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by,
Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder,
"She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth,
"Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter.
All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap,
We pile in the truck to try and get her back....
We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill....
Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill?
A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid,
Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd,
Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree,
And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
*Wondering,
if the universe flinched,
when God took you away.*
- dakota
Will I grace your thoughts when the moment comes?
Will your universe come to a complete standstill?
Will you choke back your tears...
Or by the buckets would they fill?
This pain in my heart
What is it?
I know now it's love
I know now I was bit...
I clutch my chest and begin to think...
Of the splintered shard I had failed to extract
I feel subdued and ultimately shattered
By the crushing bitter ripples of a broken pact
I'm hurting much
But strangely so...
I'm beginning to savour it
More than you know...
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Light
Color yourself indigo
Go on i dare you too
Sad but laughing buckets
Cleaning the floor with light
Oxy clean you are something
Modern poetic verbal stumbling
Left only to throw ***** shirts
Into the closet - hurt my feelings
See right through you
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I was just in the closet July 1988
Not a word was said; 'sept a couple of whispers and an obvious desire to ****
Mop buckets, the heat, and the stink of her *****
Petulant hands and harsh fingers as staggered breaths tell a tale;
knickers and pants half pulled down,
Hard truths pushing through,
I had to **** her from behind,
Very confined, quick, clumsy, ****** release.
We both staggered out; her mate was much older and waiting outside, bold as brass, she looks me up and down all tough and barks assertively "i'm next!" and **** I was back in the closet 1988
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
By
rgpage
The cool evening breeze filled with a scent of approaching rain.
Caught by playful window shears
as it passes through an open pane, to reach their
length and breadth toward the waiting bed.
He was a lover of music and his woman,
a passionate man with a sensitive heart.
She was in love with the melodic way
his gentle fingers moved with sensual touch
over her soft silk like skin of art.
He started gently around her ears softly prying
them open with the quiet richness of her melodies.
Each note of his gentle kisses leading her to a sensual abyss,
easing her down from the edge, controlling her descent, to her goal.
Down the swirling dark and light blends of the music rendered from her soul.
She was his instrument on which he placed
his soft loving fingers, moving them effortlessly,
caressing her most sensual delicate keys…Each body part
smoothly rubbed added richness to her sensual sound driven by lust
and loving trust.
Her ******* he fondled, licking and kissing, squeezing and rubbing.
Silently giving thanks, to her creator for such an amazing instrument.
Both of her hands with long slender fingers tangled in the long dark locks
of his hair as she eases her maestro’s head up tighter against her soft
beautiful mounds.
The loving melody continues with his touch now joined with the sound
of raindrops splashing into uncovered metal buckets and cans. The drops
carried on the breeze through the playful dancing shears came through the other end as nothing more than refreshing cooling mist.
Her body was his loving piano, and as with the 88 keys of his magnificent
Baldwin, the sensual areas of her equally magnificent body, when properly stroked, filled not only the bedroom but the whole house with the most glorious ****** notes known to man.
After a while the symphonic ****** builds as he masterfully impales her with his instrument of love coming into constant contact with the one special key of keys. Its special sound as his strokes came harder and faster brought the whole master piece to a beautiful melodic end as the two lovers bath in the rain’s gentle mist…
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Hair upon my head.
People say it’s beautiful.
To me, it’s merely dead.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Whenever I take a nap,
I look like lightening came down from heaven
And gave me a little zap!
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Whether wind, rain, or snow.
Humidity is my enemy
I have a **** afro.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
People stop and stare.
They ask me if it’s natural
As if they really care.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
I think it’s rather boring.
You pay buckets to look like me
It’s so freaking annoying.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Girls tell me that they’re jealous.
But if they really knew the struggle,
They’d agree it’s rather hellish.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Straight hair would be a dream.
I’d brush and brush and brush my hair
And never even scream.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Alas, it’s here to stay.
But I guess that’s what makes me different,
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
Life is
About getting buckets.
How would Kobe live if he couldn't?
That's a mystery mankind will never truly comprehend.
A bucketless Kobe is a fake Kobe.
The sound of that string music is unmatchable.
The Kareem sky hook.
The Curry j.
The Kobe fadeaway.
The PG windmill.
These are all different forms,
They all get buckets.
Cherish these buckets like no other.
One day you will be old and grey.
Like bill Russell.
You won't be able to get buckets anymore except for in your dreams.
When your career is over. You will miss it.
You can't get buckets forever.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).
My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.
Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.
Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"
Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.
These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.
One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"
The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Art has the unfortunate responsibility
of reflecting all the ugly truths
of the world
while at the same time
upholding the heavy burden
of hope
at the times breathing
becomes its hardest
we must inhale deeper
and transform the pain
in our lungs
and the doubts
in our own hearts
into something for others
to hold onto
to rest upon
to take refuge in
we must fight hate with love
give kindness the strength
to hold back cruelty
we must eat a little less
so those with nothing
will have something to eat
humanity may seem
to be slipping away
taking a step too far away
to ever come back
to ever remember
who we could be
and isn’t this a beautiful burden
this heavy weight upon our backs
and within our hearts
this feeling
that we are still alive
still able to breath
despite the pain
that we can still create
something out of the things
others would see destroyed
the ugly beasts
that dress like presidents
and kings with no clothes
with their ****** power
and their blatant lies
history will remember their crimes
as we will not let them be forgotten
tomorrow is not a day they own...
yet...
but if we want to take it back
we must start
by doing something today
remember
artist need other artist
to remind them
that there is still something left
in this world worth
making something beautiful for
and everyone
everyone of us
is an artist
so pick up your bricks
and your hammers
and your buckets of paint
and let your hearts
run wild through the streets
and start the taking of tomorrow
by turning the world
into something better today
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 4:14 PM UTC
The rooster sings to the sun,
answering the call is the light that embraces all.
All at once the birds sing their own song.
Awaken by mother's sweet voice.
"It's time to go" she says.
She hands me a green cubeta con maiz.
The corn's color is purple and white instantly
I fall in love with its kind
The cold blue morning gives me chills.
I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house.
With her mandil and her braided hair,
she sits by the comal making tortillas.
"Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face.
"Good morning m'ija" she replies.
I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket.
A small room next to a store crowded with senoras.
Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand.
I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud.
I wait in line as I greet and make small talk.
These ladies have the nicest smiles.
My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino.
My arms are too little.
A lady approaches and helps me load the molino.
I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa.
I bend down and collect it.
"En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it.
I nod and continue to make it.
Gray like the color of my grandma's hair.
soft like my mother's hand.
I fill the bucket with the masa.
I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa.
I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca.
She starts the comal and gets the cal.
Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping.
Perfect big round warm tortillas.
I was a little girl that helped her make them.
A little girl that still remembers.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
I cannot see the end in front of me?
How...
**WHAT THE **** IS GOING ON!?**
Something about two buckets of soil...
GO NOW!
GO NOW!
Go ...now,
How does the Seer work?
Do You
See?
AMC
Vikings
I
see
Why are my skinned eyes?
...crows, crows, crows, crows
Messages
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
The stairs slipped away under my feet.
My slippers are soggy.
Hair is hanging like fly paper, instead of flies it's snaring run away raindrops.
Soon to be snowdrops, as is predicted.
Spring snowflakes, spring snowdrops.
Country stops, unprepared.
Nobody cared.
Perhaps they should.
Could be good.
Buckets of grit, let them be spread.
No more pretty pure white ****
Mushy, ***** slippery slush.
*C **************************************************************/
*H **************************************************************/
A**********************************************************/
O******************************************************/
S***************************************************/
(C) LIVVI
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
When your teary storms roll in and you're out in the cold, look over your left shoulder.
My umbrella is wide enough for two, and yields the shelter and comfort you need.
My grandmother's closet is where I found it, smooth pearl handle, ***** petals, with black lace trim.
It smells of women's perfume, the kind you'd wear to a parlor for a "pick me up" drink.
She'd walk and twirl it as she casually made her way to a shaded porch. Waiting for her lover to meet her and summons her forth.
But now, those who cry a river, buckets actually, that yield no return, seek shelter under my useful umbrella.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I was reading this little story today.
A group of four-year olds were asked
“What is love?”
The answers were humorous.
They were cute, even true…
But I came across one
That made me think of you.
“I know my older sister loves me,
Because she gives me her old clothes,
And she has to go out and buy new ones.”
I smiled at this,
But thought about it some…
This little girl is right.
I’ve given you buckets of clothes.
I’d give you the shirt off my back,
Because an older sister’s love
Is the most selfless act.
I love you more than I love shoes,
Or the way it smells after it rains,
Or our conversations we have in the car.
You’re more than the sum of our memories,
And you’re more than our shared genetics,
You’re my best friend forever…
You always were, really,
Because who else would just let me cry
Over the stupidest things
While you just listen?
You always were the pretty one,
But you make me feel just as gorgeous.
I know I’m not.
But thanks for letting me believe it.
You’ve tested my patience a billion times,
But it only made me love you more.
You let me learn self-control,
You showed me how to love peoples’ flaws.
I chuckle.
I used to write you stories,
And now I write you poems.
My poems for you are my favorite ones, anyway.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
I step outside and feel my nose crinkle
Look to the sky and watch the V’s fly south
Walk through the woods and hear the leaves whistle
Take a deep breath and taste fall in my mouth.
A start to the happiest time of year
Everything’s changing like wind where it blows.
Squirrels hide acorns, scarecrows create fear,
Pumpkins make faces at kids and their clothes.
Delectable treats in bags and buckets,
Scary films to watch on the edge of your seat.
Kids running around creating ruckus,
Stomping on leaves in the street with their feet.
Lets not forget Oktoberfest and beer;
Where people gather ‘round to celebrate
A special event that’s held every year,
Something so special you can’t replicate.
Delicious mystery looms in the air
While evil spirits meander ‘round town.
Libra gives the torch to Scorpions heir
And leaves pile up into one big mound.
The autumn harvest is now creeping up
Making food to put on everyone’s plate.
A great time of year where change is a must
Because without change, nothing can be re-made.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
Hate is a red pair of Jordan's
Jealous of what they can't have
Swollen with anger
Hate derives from jealousy
Alway wanting more
To fit in with the ballers
The 7 foot giants that they'll never be
To be cooler than an ice
To hit the game winner
Crowd roaring
Adrenaline pumping and coursing
Through aching veins
To have swag
To be like MJ
To be D1 bound
To make it to the league
To get buckets
The string music
Composed by the ball swishing though the net
But it just isn't as simple
As a shiny new pair of shoes
New shoe smell
Fresh out of the box
That cause all this violence
Hatred and ruthlessness
Blood dripping on the cold dark streets
A society where
Shoe game is more important than personality
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
A ship in a bottle is a useless thing,
encapsulated, isolated.
It is meant to be crewed.
We are each holographic captains
seeking first mates
and yeomen to climb the riggings
and guide us through the storms.
Floating colonies needing founding,
battened hatches guarding dwindling
stores and shielding superstitious
sailors galore.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
brave the rough seas and
coral reefs of life and
nature's faith.
Sometimes ships run aground,
the founding of the colony,
and then sandcastles reign supreme.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
learn from their faith in nature.
We must build upon the dunes,
carrying buckets of water and
trust from the sea to inland
shores. The castle, like the ship,
will one day be reclaimed by the
sea, despite our efforts.
We build them anyway out of hope,
fearing faith, learning trust, while
wishing we were safe in a bottle.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
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