"drinkable" poems
summer light
drinkable
through
yellow straws
parched grass
gasping
for cups
of yummy
liquid
boys with limp
fringes
awkward
stubble
like barcodes
girls lap it up
thirsty dogs
in mulberry
skirts
cusp of eighteen
walking
with dragonfly wings
sunset colours come
ooze through
gauze
darkness on lips
presents a kiss
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
i have a nosebleed
and i breathe steam
seamlessly from this black hole,
******* life-air away
from those who actually
deserve
to live.
why this blood-red mud
frightens my friends
i'll never know-
it's me! so real!
me, the drinkable.
me, so easily consumable.
me, in a manipulative form.
my clay brain, melted,
sliding through my nose,
it brings the *****
little piece
of **** that i am
out into the light
where everyone can see it.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
whether sweet or salty
it is the mother of life
no matter whether you are
Darwinist or Creationist
water as a source of our existence
you cannot deny
so, what do we do
with this essential gift of nature
except drink it and float on it?
we waste it, pollute it,
in general,
we simply don’t appreciate it
at least those of us
who live in the comfort zones
of regular rainfall
advanced sanitary installations
and drinkable tap water
millions of others
depend on their lives
for water from the sky
or from the sea
re-appreciating water
taking care of it
may save the lives
of our children
they are our future
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
These are the teaching of a peaceful warrior
Today, I saw three children burn, six buildings fall and nine families cry as twelve people died.
But **** it!
I’m western,
It’s all cool.
I’ve got drinkable water,
I’ve got central heating ,
I’ve got a National Health Service,
And an education from a proper school…
Regardless of the fact that I arsed about and played the fool.
I’ve got a sorted life.
And the most I have to worry about is an unloved wife,
Or monotonous conversations about other people’s strife.
But maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m repressing the depressing parts of my day?
Maybe I should open up to the possibility that I am after all human and that it’s a part of our humanity not to like my next-door neighbour just 'cause he smiles funny?
But I guess that’s what we do.
We stigmatise, bastardise and anyone who doesn’t match up in our eyes.
So why don’t we stop?
Why can’t we feel safe from the cops?
Why can’t we trust the government to protect our jobs?
I think I know why…
‘Cause it’s a fake system,
Built on the belief that we’re all equal.
Well…
Some more than others.
And if you’re more well off then them,
Then **** your brothers!
So let’s start a revolution.
Let’s cut down pollution both environmentally and mentally,
Let’s free the oppressed and resolve this mess,
Let’s finally get off our chest the injustices of our generation and reform this nation based on equality, sustainability and chivalry.
Not bigotry, frivolity and humility.
And what of the military?
We make of them what you will,
But someone who volunteers to ****
Is either messed in the head or run out of thrills.
But think of it this way,
A workforce of a hundred thousand strong,
Who may not be aware of what they’ve done,
Can transform this world both homeland and foreign.
Commit our military to sustainability.
If they want to serve their country then go build wind farms and H E Ps in plenty.
Still I know what your thinking,
None of this is realistic.
Especially now the economy’s sick.
And whomever we vote… We’re governed by ******
So let’s turn over this government,
Let’s have a proper – civil – war.
But instead of roundheads and sabres,
We’ll strike and protest across cities and acres.
‘Cause the rich and powerful have no sway,
When the people who generate their wealth, get in their way.
But enough of my rants… what’s your say?
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
I burnt my hand on the laminator.
You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins,
Drinkable leather,
Even though I couldn't smell them
Over the tobacco from your clothes
That slowly seeps into mine.
I'd come outside with you for a cigarette
A compliment, maybe not to my lungs,
But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus
Take one more hit so I can laugh with you
About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table.
I have to keep up
Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit.
More so than those blunt scissors
Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink,
Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described,
Goes well with fish.
I can't imagine you crying,
Though I'm sure you did.
Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk,
Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping.
Your walk, a sound only comparable to
A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed,
A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step,
All femur.
Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry.
Only there would you let yourself search,
Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters,
For a scrunched up tissue.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
Water, as most of you will know,
Has the chemical formula H2O.
Now this essential liquid is, as well,
In its natural form devoid of smell,
And also in its pure state
It's clear and clean and really great,
For keeping living things alive,
As without it nothing can survive.
Yes it really is such magic stuff,
Because without it things are really tough,
And it often makes me stop and think
Each time I pour myself a drink.
What would I do if it all dried up?
Turn on the tap, but an empty cup.
Nothing from the pipes emanating,
Panic, as I'm not used to waiting.
This is not how it is for me
I live where rain falls frequently,
And I can drink, shower and bathe too
As often as I'm wanting to.
But in other parts it rains only rarely,
And people there, well they can barely
Find enough water for their needs,
To drink, to wash, to nurture seeds.
For them life is infinitely harder
They've learned to live with an empty larder,
And simple hygiene is so hard to achieve
When the detritus of living, they have to leave,
Lying, rotting, stinking on the surface all around
Polluting any water source in the ground.
Because of the extreme poverty of these 'others',
On my TV screen I have seen the faces of the mothers,
Whose children died because there has never been
Access to water which is drinkable and clean.
Yes, something that we take for granted,
Because we were born, where we were planted!
Tom Higgins
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Did you know that into the last glass of water that you sipped?
A dinosaur one day, may have bent down and dipped
A scaly tongue to quench his thirst
Or even lumbered in feet first
As he and his primeval pal recreated
In the prehistoric stream of this life-giving liquid
Which revives the lives today of all women and of men
For it’s the very same water now, as it was way back then.
How can it be that you and me,
Drink the same water again, that they did back then?
Well it’s no fluke or chance of creation
Take a look at this cycle for a simple explanation
The sun warms the ocean and this causes evaporation
Vapours condense into clouds, this causes precipitation
That’s rain to you and me as it falls down from the sky,
But precipitation is not the only reason why
Our streams fill and sometimes overflow,
Becoming rivers as they grow,
Liquid life in poetry of motions
Rivers turn to seas, ebb and flow into the oceans.
For the sun doesn’t just affect the seas and the ocean,
It heats the leaves of our trees and this causes transpiration
Because vapour also rises from the trees,
Clouds form and may even freeze,
In these clouds tiny droplets bounce around,
Fun for them but not for us on the ground
For when they hit each other, they stick together
And this has repercussions for our weather
What goes up must come down
And soon rain or hail will fall on every town
With storm and sleet on every street and gutters overflowing.
Rains lash, puddles splash and before long it’s snowing.
The levels rise in all our lakes,
But then thank God, the cloud breaks
The sun warms the ocean this causes evaporation
And he begins his work again to feed a thirsty nation.
We survey the Earth, water end to end
But it’s the same ole water, recycled again and again
Water, water is everywhere but less than 2% is drinkable,
Preserve, conserve and do take care, because pollution really is unthinkable.
Where to begin to save our water, is plain to see, it all begins with you and me.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
Daddy got the ***
Mama got the cola.
Had me wondering?
Then they mixed it up and stir it more.
Then they took a drink.
And said, mmmmmmmmmm.
Had me thinking?
Then they offer me some eggnog.
And a chance to get cookies out of the cookie jar.
Had me smiling?
While I'm enjoying the moment.
I notice my parents going in for another mixture of their drinks.
Had me pondering?
As the Christmas music played along for hours.
I soon saw my parents was passed out.
Had me investigating just what that drink was about?
Then I realize, I had the roam of the house all to myself.
To call Santa and talk to his elves.
And to request that upon delivering toys that they bring my parents a drinkable gift.
What more could I ask for?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
At the end of my day, looking out my window,
I reflect on the things I did, the friends I met, the thoughts I had.
I regret only what I regret, leaving out so much I could have lived but I didn't.
So many feelings conveniently ignored to make ground for a reflexive and inane life.
So many opportunities neglected and that remained invisible to me.
So much existence trimmed down or that passed by my side in silence –
I was too distracted with nothing and everything to reach out and ****** it and live it.
I’m happy nonetheless, for I realize that life is indeed a show of middling experiences
That arbitrarily builds up or into greatness or into commonness.
It’s the patchiness, the randomness of life that makes it wonderful and lovely.
It’s life untaken by contemplation that flows and grows into something special.
We think too much, for nothing!
Nature doesn’t need your help to follow its course.
You are and you will always be the greatest obstacle along your own path.
Bring down your guard and unwind your mind.
Try to be like the minute sparrow intuitively carrying a twig to its nest.
Let the wind blow, let the sun shine, let the grass grow.
I believe in a world that I can see, unfiltered by concepts,
That is touchable and is untainted by the mind.
To think is to destroy things – that’s the sole sake of thought!
I believe in a world that is solid, eatable, drinkable, and can be sensed by the skin.
I believe in a world that can be heard, and pushed, and slapped, and squeezed.
I believe in a world that is uncertain, but that is real.
Don’t come to me with your romantic and impractical ideas that are hazy and shapeless,
That require my gullible imagination, my complicity, and a speck of idiocy, to survive.
I want to stay authentic. Please, let me stay ignorant and authentic!
My feelings are my thoughts (they are my only thoughts).
I have feelings as a flower has scent and colors.
I don’t want to think about the world. I don’t want to understand it.
I want to be a part of it. (To be we don’t need to think.)
I just want to love the world and accept it.
I want to love it, but I don’t want to know why I love it, nor what it is I love.
I want to love it for love’s sake.
I want to love it with childlike innocence.
Love is always uncomplicated. Remember this,
Love is always uncomplicated.
Calmly, as the oak tree I see in my garden,
I pull back from my window sill and go back to my life,
To my pointless life, my careless life, my foolish life,
So filled with simplicity, truth, and beauty.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?
Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.
A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.
---
O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.
O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –
As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.
---
Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?
Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?
Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
force-fed lies by those elected to protect
reddens my raw throat
hoarsely shouting into the void
that oddly enough looks like
the populace at large
blank faces, replaced
gone are the impassioned speeches
and marching masses
instead we see
the insane rallying troop movement
my glass house sits very near
to the danger zone
and fall-out patterns –
asteroid minors look at a distant blue dot
thinking of simpler times
and solid foods –
Republican miscreants misrepresent
minorities
mandating moratoriums
on malt liquor
and manicures –
purest snow falls on the Peruvian plains
toxin free
drinkable
peasant farmers are handed land claims
on generational farms
today, PEPSI owns all precipitation –
hope fades
and faith dwindles
the reality of a global super-power
restraint less
and hungry –
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
Dying so slowly they think they're alive.
I can't imagine a word that
means anything close to what I'm
imagining.
Utopia to some, post apocalypse to many.
I had to describe how someone can exist
and cherish a person,
but hope to annihilate their species.
"Imagine someone hands you a glass of water.
You imagine they mix tap water with something filtered,
still drinkable right?
Imagine they mixed in poison, or waste.
Would you still drink?"
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
every hour he grows nearer to perfection
until he turns to dust.
it's those sounds he makes before he falls asleep
that make it hard not to touch him in the night.
he dances through my dreams
with fistfuls of daisies
he says they're the color of me.
his words turn me to vapor, and I'll cling to the first thing I see.
he is every living green thing.
he cleans the air around me.
he purifies.
he makes me drinkable.
I am fresh with bruises,
the kinds you get from bedtime wrestling.
I want to nuzzle myself into the space between his two front teeth
and use his uvula as a tire swing.
sliding down his happy trail, I'll explore my surroundings.
this boy with the electric tongue, that shocks when we kiss.
static at the tip of every follicle of hair.
lightning in his eyes,
always coming a few seconds before the thunder in his head.
he is the tang of honey mustard,
the swell of a sea,
the crackle of a record;
this boy that stays up til 5 A.M.
(just for me.)
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Hidalgo’d greeted me with my son’s first
rainbow and the “Grande’s” nearly drinkable,
but I don’t; I simply listen to its whisper.
So swept the moon and salt slightly right of
hand, whilst chasing tequila, and a haunt
avenged – hatred for the home I’ve fled and
harbored, a fury for those that’d now intend her
harm.
Sure, my son’s safe, and he smiles. But the
seconds make haste, when her feet pitter-patter
and a village’s only swell, for so long, so long
that swollen’s tempered.
Tomorrow, I venture back, and the day after, I’d
pray, pray that come Thursday, my baby and our
baby, inebriated womb, would ride atop my
back, free and never to fear again.
Never to run again, never to cry again, and so
birthed our smiles surrounded the table, echoed
were the tales of how we’d achieved, “here” –
Our promised land, “there,” upright, full,
content, we’d talk about it every night, and it’s
there. Come hell or high water, “it’s,” there, it
really is, and come hell or high water, soon we’d
make it, “here.”
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
I love Mr Toby,
Miss Tibby says,
lying on her bed,
with her red and white
flowered two-piece
bed suit on,
with legs raised,
lifting him skywards
in her hands,
(she fresh showered).
Mr Tibby,
she calls,
kissing his paws,
a bluey-white,
where will you,
my darling,
sleep tonight?
He wags his tail,
either from fright
or trying his charms,
dangling from
her hands and arms,
and sexily meows
oft repeatedly.
She shakes her head,
pushing her black
haired head, into
the marshmallowy
pink pillow.
Where are you going
to lay your head, My Toby?
She says, sensing
his tail wag
between her thighs,
( a bit like Henry did,
but he told lies),
you can't sleep with me,
you naughty ****
can't nest your
furry head beside
my head,
in my soft
and snugly bed,
can't sleep here.
He purrs loudly;
she can sense the slight
vibrations along her arms.
Bad boy,
trying your charms,
she says, (just like Henry
did purring between
my thighs with those
drinkable eyes).
Mr Toby begins to wiggle,
either to be put
down and to lie,
or run away and play.
She smiles,
and kisses his nose,
and puts him on the bed
beside her head,
and he snuggles down
against her *******
purring mildly,
(just as Henry did,
but he more wildly).
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
When they want
For wealth and gold and pearls
They will rip it from your
Hands and from the clam,
With the hunger of lust and malice
Swallowing life whole
The lost thieves of old...
Those who only feed the wolf
Loving dogs for more than thee.
It's curious to think
They presume that it is wealth
That heaviness of gold
Just A mystic rock just melted chains.
The other a product of invertebrates
To lug about with them
Their wares
**** Flashing all who happened by
Their wares
There's no use for a sack of pearls
When here we get
And get got
Seed
Fertile minds
A wealth unmatched
Seeds
[Point to the temples of our skulls]
Sow there
A chain of pearls...
How I should want
To learn from the honor
Of good fathers
Great pearls of their wisdom
How I should rather covet
the wisdom of a clam
How an alien looking thing
Under endless canopies
Of un drinkable seas
Could be awarded / afforded "Creation"
(You better should know)
The artistic hand of Masterpiece
Shaping all
Opalescence
Almost to the utmost
Diamond cuts
How godlike is this gift
From the mouth
Like the clam ...
What treasures could be better heard
When all the world
Spoke Love
The language of divine "Creation."
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
To keep the patient comfortable was all now I could do.
The diagnosis was terminal and he obviously knew.
I was with him through his surgery that was thelast gasp chance,
and now he looked death in the face with an unflinching glance.
He said “Dear, if you’ll humor me and if there’s any chance,
There are three things on my bucket list before I leave this dance.”
“I’m craving one last cigarette; perhaps a glass of wine;.
“and, If you can arrange it, to see the Sun a final time.”
On the top floor of this hospital there’s an open balcony.
I grubbed a cigarette for him out of sympathy.
I could not get a cabernet; he’d settle for Chablis.
I got him on a gurney and called for an orderly.
That afternoon was splendid and Fall was in the air.
The Sun was setting in the West as he watched it from his chair.
The patient puffed his Marlboro and blew smoke rings for me
He didn’t give me too much grief for my choice of Chablis.
“They say the Lord on Calvary was thirsty for a drink,
A sponge soaking in vinegar they offered Him, I think.”
“So who am I to criticize my nurse’s choice of wine;
Its chilled and it is drinkable so it will serve me fine.”
By evening he was comatose; his pulse was weak and fast
His children said there last goodbyes; grateful for the chance.
They’d arranged it with the Doctors; DNR was on his slip.
I sat and held the old man’s hand as the good god, Morphine, dripped.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Blurry leaves a blowing
In the wind-
Belching to blackbirds
Pulling sadness from
Teeth--
Blood; drinkable-
Blindness-
Spits mythology with
Atoms saying,
Admantium dreams-
There's-an-ocean
Sway--
Sweeping beneath
The soul-and I
--And I
Forget--
My fate bestowing
Feet amidst shelves
Made of shin.
To an uncentered
Head as centerpiece.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
Capture me! Now you have the chance
You've captivated me with a single glance
See my lips drop onto your skin like rain
Collect me like the tears of an undisclosed pain
Pour my essence into a bottle--let me never depart
Quickly hide me from harm within the nooks of your heart
Bring me to your lips when you feel of despair
Spritz me over your skin, let me diffuse through the air
Use me as strong drink, to abandon your troubles
For each sip of love you take, the abundance for you doubles
Your bottle is ever-filled
Ever-filling
No end
So do not use sparingly,
My lover,
My friend
The earth's only remedy
For all you desire
The only liquid melody
A drinkable fire
To quench your tongue's thirst
And always be enough
Yet leave your soul thirsting
For it is never enough
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Though the sentence may end,
the ink carries on.
The cartridge seems vacant of
wanton metaphors.
Exhibiting reflections on soiled paper cups,
wanting to be filled
with drinkable dictations of
what is spelt out in stains.
But I spilt that void long ago,
blemishing my shirt
with what meant to be drank upon.
A decolouration of meaning read differently.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Just because **** is sterile
Don't mean that it's drinkable
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
What
if
the
pillows
could collect
the tears
and
recycle
them
to
drinkable water,
could be supplied
to the people
who are
in
drought
affected
area
?
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
"Only 3% of all water on earth is drinkable"
So why are we wasting it?
Why do we take 35 minute showers when 10 minutes is already too long?
Shouldn’t we preserve this sacred gift that nature is so generous to provide?
Maybe humans are too wrapped up in themselves to realize the danger we are in.
Maybe the world leaders are too involved in saving their own skin than to save their peoples’.
Maybe it’s just too late.
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 12:17 PM UTC
Lizbeth waited
by the back exit
of the school
as I came out
I was with Dave
who walked on
best see you here
can't have
your ****** queen
seeing us
she said
I said nothing
but looked at her
and tried not
to be engaged
in too long a talk
having to get
the school bus home
and tried not
to see her eyes
which were drinkable
and her smile
which kind of
made me weak
at the knees
and her perfume
slight but there
o there
can't talk long
I said
got to get
the bus home
yes I know
won't be long
she said
her hand
touched mine
and she drew me
over away
from the exit doors
and said
can I see you
Saturday?
I can come over
on my bike?
I guess so
I said
only I'm maybe
seeing someone
I know who
she said unsmiling
anyway it
will be good
to see you
ok
I said
unsure of what
will follow
and she turned
and went
swaying her hips
her uniform
neat and tight
to her flowing body
she turned
and waved
and I waved back
and she was gone
and out of sight
(would I dream
of her that night?)
I got on
the school bus
and Jane was there
and she seems
to know
I thought
I swear.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC