"cupful" poems
Your eyes are mesmerizing, they are so beautiful
So are your dreamy brown eyes and lashes so full
Follow me lovely to somewhere a bit less dull
Let's go do something sweeter and meaningful
To a haven less bright of that I'm so hopeful
You're so strong with big arms yet naughty and playful
We merge closely and here with you is so wonderful
Why am I tingling and trembling yet feel so cheerful
What about darkness we've got to be so careful
Worry leaves at your sight but I am mindful
Your warm embrace tantalise your touch so purposeful
Give me that gilded vessel and I'll fill it to the brimful
Your manly raging strength remains a tasty mouthful
Oh your ****** and swaying hips makes eyes tearful
Entwined blissfully thus the clouds' within our pull
I know we'll soon part and in days between I'll feel mournful
With such sweet memories I won't let it feel too dreadful
busy fingers will remember you're more than a handful
My gilded vessel will arch for your more than a cupful
And if wanting you is wrong I don't mind being sinful
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Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
THE MILK drops on your chin, Helga,
Must not interfere with the cranberry red of your cheeks
Nor the sky winter blue of your eyes.
Let your mammy keep hands off the chin.
This is a high holy spatter of white on the reds and blues.
Before the bottle was taken away,
Before you so proudly began today
Drinking your milk from the rim of a cup
They did not splash this high holy white on your chin.
There are dreams in your eyes, Helga.
Tall reaches of wind sweep the clear blue.
The winter is young yet, so young.
Only a little cupful of winter has touched your lips.
Drink on ... milk with your lips ... dreams with your eyes.
2k
What balm is there
in being right?
Especially rightness,
righteousness
grounded in bitterness--
are you joining me in my misery?
I do not want
my happiness to come
at the expense of yours--
as if there were some
limited supply of it;
some small cupful--
snatching at the drops
that fall.
If I want compassion+mercy
extended to me
then I **** well better
extend it to others.
And so I go forward,
waving olive branches.
Will you grasp back?
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
soft waves ripple the water,
they come and they go,
sprinkling seeds of fervent hope
gentle waves tickle the sand,
they come and they go,
leaving dreams
of rapture
behind
Boastful waves CRASH into rocks,
they come and they go,
shattering dreams
to s m i t h e r e e n s
frantic waves expunge the sea foam,
they come and they go,
d
r
ow
n
ing
hope
as
it does
silent waves creep back to the sea,
they come and they go,
a cupful of
tears in tow
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Would it seem presumptuous, perhaps impertinent,
of me to invite you for a cup of tea on a sunny Sunday
morning at a small shop on a well- trafficked street?
And, it you were to agree would you question me,
over that cup of tea, or before, as to why I wish
your company on a sunny Sunday morning?
I might answer, before that cup of tea, that your interests
interest me, and given what I see, you seem quite shy (and
I have heard this is true) and I think you might be more
inclined to reply over a cup of pekoe brew on a safe and
sunny well-trafficked street on a Sunday morning.
And, what would the object be, you might ask, of meeting
over a cup of tea and what would a pertinent question be?
The why and why not of what you know and what you do,
the who and why and what of you cannot all be explained
over a cup of tea on a sunny Sunday morning, but a small
answer, say a cupful, with one who takes pleasure in
interesting conversation with one who seems interesting
is all the question and answer needed on a sunny Sunday
morning and a cup of tea.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
I am hungry and I am not silent
I am thirsty with a cask full of headaches - but I don't partake
I am mindful of the acetaminophen with codeine
because they take the pain away...
So I am no longer hungry
and the thirst continues with the glass 1/2 full
salt pepper and sugar mixed with baking soda add cupful of flour and raw egg. I can certainly add mayonnaise
MIX &EAT; MIX &EAT; MIX &EAT;
and she tells me that she loves me
and she expels her lonely thoughts
and she runs in circles with clarity
as the clock continues to tick
as my hunger persists for hours and days upon days that last
I can no longer go through this
and all is becoming useless
as the type written lines are becoming shorter
my height has become my tolerance...
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
As soon as the final cupful
of water was poured,
we’d hoist him from the plastic tub
and he’d jiggle as if electrocuted,
water flinging everywhere,
a wild tremor from head to tail.
Then we’d pat him dry
with a pink towel,
black hair glossier than ever
and he’d run
straight to the fence,
rub up against it
as if rubbing the freshness
out from his skin,
back and forth
with a goofy look on his face.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
another postcard came,
sent from the hollowman.
bright, happy pictures
on the front.
and terse, inked messages
on the back.
"am ok" or "doin fine"
"still here"
& "i am living my life"
anger and grief,
etched in each
& every penstroke.
he, rings ben,
& they talk,
like lovers , in hushed
& secretive tones,
for long periods of time.
but he won't speak to me.
ben says,
he says, it is still .....
too hard, to fresh & raw
....and i remind him,
to much of her...
(she has a name,
i say angrily)
but, really,
i don't know,
what to do with that.....
any more than i know
what to do with.....
the boxes, stacked,
in our garage.
your bequest to me,
the residue of your life.
each time i open
one to unpack.....
i add,
a cupful of salty tears,
before resealing it....
god!
it might be years,
before i get them done.
and i know,
this is not so much,
about his all encompassing grief,
or the tidal heft of mine.
as much,
as it is about,
my need to make,
things, better and smooth and fine.
you,
in your much missed
wisdom,
once said,
"we are the sisters sisyphus'.
me, i am wanting to be,
glue,
always, holding things together,
often, way past, their prime.
and you,
you, want to take,
a jagged pebble
and work and polish it,
till smooth as a marble...
but really,
both these things,
are tasks never done....
and in the end,
the world has it's way..... things, lives,
come apart and shatter
and we are left,
to begin again, again....
so, sue for you
and in your memory...
to laz,the hollowman
i give his mispent anger
and recieve his postcards
and hope that time will heal.
as to, the gift of your boxes.
i seed my salted love...
they will be there,
when i am ready
and the tide is right.
and i let the world have
it's way...
in hope you are smiling down from above....
and i think you are...
this weeks message,
"got a dog"
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
A slight pinch this, a tiny smidge of that
A recipe of four, now that’s where it’s at
A cupful of Italian, plus German and English
Pinch in some Indian, to have a smooth dish
A spoonful of trust, add loving and caring
Stir all together, then add forgiving and sharing
Mix in a Father who gives his endless love
Adds in that flavor, like a gift from above
Red hair of fire, dab freckles all around
Add in some sugar, the sweetest Mom in the town
What’s this… a Sister, not just any, the best
She adds in vanilla, mixed in with the rest
At last add myself, which completes the four
I bring excitement and add so much more
Flavor for life, a splash of wild spice
I give the dish that essence of life
So if you asked, what makes a great family dish
It’s lots of preparation, a hope and a wish
That you’d be so lucky, to be proud and be glad
For having a wonderful Sister, a Mother and a Dad
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
coffee stained her teeth
and smoldered her tongue
as she choked on a cupful
in hope that it would somehow
wake every single cell of her body
from the tormenting dreams
that never failed to welcome her
in her every slumber
gust of wind caressed her skin
and lulled her with muffled melody
as she embraced the breeze
that greeted her with relish
as if it understood her undying misery
that she concealed imperfectly
from everyone she knew
desiring that eventually she’d get through
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
A handful of Memories
A cupful of sorrow
A flagon of happiness
Faith in tomorrow
A measure of taking
A measure of giving
A curious jumble
This business of living
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
In the hollow of my heart
I yearned for loves completion
Like the caterpillar yearns for wings
Cocoon enveloped in solitary darkness
Not yet aware of the transformation within
You gave me wings to fly
Made of glass and fragile like my soul
When I came to alight on the first bloom
They shattered and dropped like cellophane tears
And once more I was incomplete
I didn't think I could try again
Heart dry as dust and no more tears to cry
But I heard you calling my name
And knew deep inside
That you had never left me
Filled now, like a cupful of crystal water
Spilling over and spreading in rivulets
Running in streams but never running out
My lips are soft and I thirst no more
Satisfied from the inside out with you
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
have you ever drank a river?
stretched your lips over it's banks
and ****** everything —
the fishes,
the canoes,
and the boots
that sunk 5 years ago.
I am so thirsty that if I could stretch my mouth
around this planet
and crunch the glaciers,
swallow the oceans,
and breathe in the clouds —
It would not still be enough.
But see what nature did.
It gave me a small mouth
and a mind that believes
that a cupful
is enough.
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 10:11 AM UTC