"dunked" poems
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Once upon a time,
in a land faraway,
lived an Oreo biscuit.
Everyone judged him--
he was black on the outside,
and white on the in.
He thought he would
never ever fit in.
Now in that land of biscuits,
where most were brown,
they all thought Oreo's
the strangest in town.
But little did they know
he was the favorite of the lot.
For in the human world,
his kind was the most bought.
Everyone learned to love him,
even the Fita guy.
But he told Oreo,
"Don't trust humans;
you won't want to know why."
But the Oreo boy,
he was a curious one.
He thought he needed to enjoy,
go out and have fun.
Later that night,
someone grabbed him, behold--
fear glazed over Oreo's eyes
over what he was told.
He was twisted and dunked
in milk till he drowned.
Then broken forever
and his life was summed.
For whatever Fita said,
it became so true.
Whatever happened to Oreo
Hopefully, won't happen to you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
The witch finder general he came to seek them out.
His mistake when innocent witches.
The innocent ones his soul did take.
Dunked Nanna in the ducking pool.
Dragged aunt to Manning Tree.
Wanted to started a mega pyre for the likes of thee and me.
In archaic land of treachery in the land of treason.
Sweet virgins crucified with no justified reason.
Mother turned the milk sour.
Daddy was a warlock.
Brother was magic man.
Kept his grimoire by his bed.
Family of innocence.
Witches innocent,
Spitting fire now deceased after the flames.
Wanted the witch finder's mortal remains.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.
three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.
him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.
hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.
him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.
we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.
after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.
sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
feet first
into the treat of the night
the teating streets
the neighbours pool
drunken fools the pair of uz
dunked in unruly lust
drunk as fruit flies
for the science
we list about
and stumble
fumbling lyrics
in our dripping clothes
laughing like art gone temple
a mentally unstable template
that'll be fazed by the sunrise
.
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.
I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.
Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.
Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.
Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.
Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.
Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.
Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.
Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.
So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.
Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
a heartness of light displays ;
in initial tinting
the morning
tipsy
dunked in the thirst
from the passing night
unnecessary
the fight we experience
in darkness seems
once exposed
wincing in the maturing sunlight
a wedded weight is removed
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 11:52 AM UTC
The Milkman Cometh
It could be Margie or it could be Pearl
bringing us our refreshment we trust
though we are all old dead beat boozers
we still enjoy sweet cookies dunked in lust
we waited for Hickey for as long as we could
to get this party off with a bang
but we've waited long enough I say
time for a grand toast gosh dang
Rocky gave us the okay to get started
but he asked us to leave Cora alone
she was busy baking a surprise cake
for the captain who was finally coming home
Hickey finally shows but wont raise his glass
says he sees better now that he's sober
but he couldn't take the kiss from her lips
and quickly began to disrobe her
got milk they all yelled as the night wore on
the police finally shut it all down
the chocolate had been spilled everywhere
the news was all over the town
Gomer LePoet....
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
The songs of our head
A fast movie clip
Fast paced
Everyday, slow down, slow down.
All things real. Music makes things real.
And you were the one song I couldn't get out of my head.
Twisting, turning, swerving, dipping.
My car would turn around
Circles was the only direction my car knew.
Around, Around, Around.
Come full circle
Please leave, oh god leave
Then time passes: My head is dunked in ice water.
My pupils dilated and my heart beats to a tick.
Facing reality, then sip into another circle.
I realized:
You were my presence I presented in my mind
You were my presence slowly becoming my past, but my minds future
and Our presence was my undoing, I should've kept quiet
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
I
My five-five-fingers of my hands
Zestfully lived In serenity.
The three thrill fingers of my right hand:
Thumb, index finger and middle finger
Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully
Amongst her BROTHERS:
They rested gleefully upon the placid,
SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART.
II
Sharp sable pointed-dart;
Perched in the midst of the three thrill fingers
And laid rest upon the hungry,
****** DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled
Bear flat on the glossy desk.
The glossy desk accompanying the earth
The earth accompanying its depth.
III
The other two fingers of my right hand:
Ring finger and little finger
Calmly leisure, plopped on the hungry,
****** dusky-sheet
And lent ears to the Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering vignettes of yesterday
Muttering vignettes of today
Muttering vegnettes of tomorrow.
Upon the glossy desk
My five fingers of my left hand too
Laid rest, and eyeballed the sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering deep thoughts.
IV
Look,
All you who waded through lines:
All you who unearth the heart
Of this earth, hunting for treasures
Pore over my ten fingers.
My ten fingers,
As pure as a full ****** moon.
I have dunked deep my five fingers
Of my right hand with my progenitors
In a bowl of sweet dishes
And nibbled singed YAMS amidst
The thriving vegetables.
V
But my forefinger of my left hand
Never been raised above
To curse the heavens
Never been raised up to pinpoint
My progenitors' homeland
Never had it tasted any depravity
And never will it be licked
Or bit by the savage butchers of Meat
Who loved to fatten themselves on ******
And gratified their heart with
Juicy cup of blood and gore.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
I play sports but
Basketball
Was never my game
Don’t get me wrong
I’ve dunked a few times
But when I shoot
I never score
And
Once again,
Become
The Rebound
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
You neatly told me
That your muse is more a student
Of mountain writing
Than of poems; the way they go in
And out, all natural and deserted.
How otherwise can one know
The heart of the matter than
To isolate the heart, at least
For a moment or several, with
What remains of earth and air?
Leave it alone without water.
Send it into the woods with nothing but
A flimsy packet of beef jerky,
No swimwear, and hope
That the sky doesn't pour itself in riot.
So be ready for anything with
The grace to let the self be
Washed, dunked in a lake
Of coffee to emerge what it could
Have been from the beginning.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Women Stereotypes
10w40
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.
3 in 1
The lubricant can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.
Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!
Lubricant Affordability
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.
Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)
Anticlimax lubricant ambivalence has reached it’s ******
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/
like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
(organic ******
as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.
the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)
little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.
star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.
in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
Love-driven on the edge of chance
he took the stairs in his surefooted stride:
Two, four - and one too many.
Happens, sometimes.
He dunked his thumb in the jam ***
And sought for a sentence –
That eluded him.
He rooted, laughed and drank,
Took his scarf,
hat
and thought:
Such a lucky chance –
It happens, now and then,
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
And leave on the dot.
Well then!
Four, two – you know the rest:
One too many.
It was meant to be.
There were flowers by the table –
And the cups were steaming
Invitingly to be stirred.
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
You know too well,
It happens now and then:
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Shes grown up in a world where your name is everything. So she played everything, & gave it her everything. When that money came in she saved everything for college not knowing she would get a scholarship. But she is smart, smart as if she is but a descendant of Einstein, And I look up to her cause im short and compared to me she is sky high but she is 6,3 and beautiful a goddess *3 to me. She plays ball like her daddys twin was scotty pippen and he tolder put her hands on the ball and boom they traded powers like mike.. like mike and when i would tell her ik someone who plays better she would tell me im trippin. Cause she never missed a practice she only wanted to get greater. And when she dunked for the first time ever she went home on some macklemore **** like "i touched the net mom i touched the net" it was the best day of her life. And shes been running all her life from miles to around the basketball court. God **** now the army what else do you want to accomplish. What are you running from young girl them legs... them legs all them **** legs big girl dont stop now dont give up brown eyes.cause In this world ill be jenny and your forest gump run run forrest run.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
The whole thought of it makes me think,
That I’m falling down something.
Something worse than my leg aches.
Or the headaches I get from the aspirin I take.
A kind of sickness of the spirit,
A crack or the mind,
Or a disfiguring leprosy of the soul.
You tell me I should think and remember back.
But that is because you can't imagine.
The perfect agony of being seven.
The horrible complexity introduced by eight .
But I can sit here and remember every painful digit.
At nine I was the unwanted orphan,
I wished I could turn invisible.
When my head was dunked in a certain way.
At ten a prisoner, at eleven a wretch.
But now I am mostly at my cars window .
Watching the early mourning light.
Back then it never rose so beautifully.
Against the side of my car door.
back then it never seemed to illuminate the world so gloriously.
And my for head never leaned against the window.
As it does now.
As I play my harmonica all the dark blue sadness draining out through it.
The melodies giving me peace in a conflicted mind
The notes freeing me from the bonds of oppression that weighed me down.
This is the beginning of freedom I say to my self.
As I walk through the world in my small boots.
I try to be the man I was destined to be.
The man who I should be.
It seems only a short while ago I used to believe.
There was nothing worth while under my skin,
If you cut me no one would care as I would bleed
But now my worth is not determined by others but by me.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:09 PM UTC
Somewhere out there.
Spiders build non ending webs.
Funnels and tunnels, no trains passing through.
They scuttle as they dash through the hearth.
Where the fires of the hearts of queens once burned.
Madame summons's her lady in waiting.
To sweep away the creature she's hating.
Her ladyship is really posh.
She's eaten many you know.
Tells the world they're scrumptious nosh.
The ladies maid, collects her captured trophies in a trinket box.
Stashes them in the drawer.
The one where milady keeps her socks and hoes.
Even the hankies to wipe her regal nose.
But, once in the bluest of moons,
She melts some chocolate on a spoon.
Into the runny chocolate, the leggy hairy creatures get dunked.
Those spiders dipped in chocolate,they're tasting really great.
A little bit of protein to satisfy the queen.
Her delicacy.
Apparently!
(C) LIVVI
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Her face
Sour
A washed out ugly gray
Similar to that of dishwater
With greenish clumps
That closely resemble
Expired milk clods
For eyes
Her hair
Worn out
An expanse of stringy greased mess
As if she’d dunked it into a fry cook’s sink
With the occasionally highlight
Of a darker, muddy brown
Like Mother Nature gave up on a painting
And left her
Her body
Frail
A structure of porous bones and blood
A once pure white soiled with brownish red speckles
The devoured remains of a media wolf’s snack
Unable to really hold itself up
It shudders and shakes constantly
Sort of like a hypothermic deadbeat
So undeniably ugly
Disgusting feeble and poor
Yet somehow
Against what all the yet of you see
I see something gorgeous
Something that could be loved
What I see in her
I love
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random ***********
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
****
I can't believe
You've lived eighteen long years
I don't want to believe
You're of legal age
Because just yesterday
You arrived for school 2 hours late for
You slept at 4 am because of anime
Your blue boxers would show even if you wore a belt
You bought 100 Pesos worth of Spanish bread during recess
You dared to punctuate your English report with wrong grammar
You dunked iced tea bottles to the trash can, imitating Jordan
You ran and screamed in the hallways with the 3rd graders
You hanged your sweaty shirt to dry at the lockers
You spammed our physics teacher's laptop with selfies
You bit my shoulder, literally
You drew kitties and robots in your math test
You attempted to sing to dubstep
You took a nap at the carpeted library floor and
You almost ran over me with your car
So even if you're now an adult officially
You're still this messed up kid to me
Happy birthday though
You're finally 18
My wish for you is that you would be careful
'Cause you're old enough to hit the slammers
I guess age is really just a number
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC