Extractor poems on Hello Poetry

Sylvia Plath

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ----
Sir So-and-so's gin.

This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects ----
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ----
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

Cori MacNaughton Jul 2015

Fire Cider

Finally it is done.

For months I have been
collecting ingredients
for the magical elixir -
home grown ginger and rosemary,
fresh organic garlic, onions and lemon,
finely chopped jalapeno pepper,
powdered turmeric,
Ceylon cinnamon,
tulsi, kelp and black pepper.

What eluded me was the
pungent, fresh horseradish,
unexpectedly absent in our stores
and farmers markets,
until a birthday trip to New York,
when we found the massive roots
in a Russian market.

And, once properly chopped
and shredded and zested,
all is covered and bathed
in organic apple cider vinegar,
a superfood in itself,
where it will draw out the
healing constituents
of each vital ingredient,
creating a powerhouse of wellness.

And now we wait.

Four to eight weeks
of shaking the jars every day
before we drain the lot,
run the pulp through a juice extractor
and add the final touch ...
local honey, raw and unfiltered,
adding sweetness and
its own preserving power,
along with a strong boost to health.

A long time to wait
for this Nectar of the Gods,
but so very worth it:
a shot of this each day
and colds and flu stand no chance -
bacteria and virus alike
overwhelmed -
say goodbye to illness.

Let us now give thanks
to our grandmothers
and all the lay herbalists
of generations long past,
for through their efforts,
our own knowledge
is greatly enriched.

We stand on the shoulders of giants.

5July2015

My ode to one of the most healing elixirs on the planet, popularized by herbalist Rosemary Gladstar in her books for well over 35 years.  Having loved the stuff for years, I just made my first half-gallon batch on July 4th - my personal Independence Day from mainstream medicine.

Recently, three business people with few scruples and less common sense, having gotten the idea and initial recipe from a friend, who no doubt came by it through Rosemary Gladstar or one of her many proteges, decided to trademark the phrase "fire cider," claiming - dishonestly - that they had invented it, despite it having been around for decades - if not generations - under that name.
Suddenly, lay herbalists all over the country had their listings removed from Etsy and other websites for intellectual property infringement, even though many of the said herbalists had been selling fire cider for far longer than the name had been trademarked.

Being something of a rebel myself, I have made and will continue to make Fire Cider using its original name, crediting Rosemary Gladstar as the original source - even though she herself acknowledges that it is far older than she, and even she learned about it from an older herbalist - and publicly thumb my nose at the cretins who trademarked the phrase, with the firm belief that they should be ashamed of themselves for trying to capitalize on OTHER PEOPLE'S WORK while claiming it as their own.

It is up to us, We the People, for keeping knowledge such as this free and available to the public at large.  Lives may well depend upon it.

For those who wish to learn how to make fire cider for yourselves, I direct you to the YouTube videos that Rosemary Gladstar and Mountain Rose Herbs have generously provided to the public for free.
Herbalists in general are a generous lot, and she is one of the finest, along with Susun ****, both of whom were inspired by my personal favorite herbalist, the late British veterinarian and master herbalist Dr. Juliette di Bairicli-Levy.
I recommend the work of all three herbalists highly.

For those with kids or animals, the books on herbalism by Dr. di Bairicli-Levy are invaluable, as she spent the better part of seventy years traveling the world and learning the herbal medicine traditions of people in every part of the world, initially as it pertained to their animals, but ultimately for use with humans as well.
Her "Complete Herbal for the Dog and Cat" and "Complete Herbal for Barnyard Animals" (which includes dogs and cats, but in less detail) are must-have volumes for anyone with animals.
She successfully ran a very busy animal clinic in London, England, where she was routinely curing even distemper and rabies cases - diseases that modern veterinary science still considers incurable today - and she was curing them in the 1930s.
Do yourself - and your family - a favor, buy her books, and keep them at the ready, for whatever may come along.  You will be glad you did.

#self #fire #healing #system #cider #medicine #immune #herbal #antiviral #antibacterial

John Bartholomew Aug 2018

Disabled Bog Blues

If you've not done it then you are a liar too
The luxury of the able-bodied to have a sneaky little poo
Look left, look right, there's nobody about
A peaceful time for what's needed now
A better handwash and a cleaner surround,
from the ceiling to extractor fan
Even onto the white grout

I'm not one to judge as I'd been there before
From a night in Yates's where they want your key to sniff coke
These private, uncompromising rooms have a life of their own, with stories I will not joke

The people of most Wetherspoons have a disabled key they use on a daily basis
Nothing wrong with them all, the odd one with a genuine NHS bracelet,
I tell you now, you really do start to hate it

But it is nice to be away from the majority of the public in a life I did not choose
Occupied, red dial turned, out come a pair of girls mostly half drunk, always together as a two
That is probably why it gets me down, a daily occurrence,
it affects us all,

These,

Disabled bog blues

JJB

My disability exists not because I use a wheelchair, but because the broader environment isn't accessible - Stella Young

The world worries about disability more than disabled people do - Warwick Davis

"Aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know that so it goes on flying anyway" - Mary Kay Ash

Tim Knight Feb 2013

HOW TO WRITE A LETTER TO A FRIEND

Dear warmth,

May you rub your back against my shoulder
‘til the windows mist with condensation,
and we fall back into youth, hiding
away from the older.

May your temperature, rising to the point
of red cheek puncture, provide an oasis
under the sand of duvet’s cover.

May your hair whip around like every
flame I’ve ever seen, no agenda or judgement,
just sheer ecstasy and  excitement.

May you conjure up that lone shower feeling,
that one where for a brief slot in time everything
you know and have become floats away through
that extractor fan, out into the air- climbing higher.

May you provide that gasp of heat that
hits the cook in the face, after opening the oven’s
gate in hunger and haste.

May you be that holiday sun I always seek.

May you be the metal womb of  a car when
outside in the myriad hospital world
where it’s cold.

May you be humorous and humid and
totally lovely to be with.

May you be a heated conversation and argument
and disagreement, that torment of words
I need to hear.

May you be my laugh that bubbles up
from the volcano underneath.

May you be the heat caused by key
and lock, that one that stops
others from coming in and making
for ruin.

May you be that first sip of  ‘the
most civilised thing in the world’, as
Hemmingway put it, and let it ignite
a dance below.

May you not judge the mixture
of my grape and grain, and my love
for walking in the rain and my waiting for
ex-girlfriends every time they call.

May you always let me bed down
in that manger in the snug, though
Steve doesn’t know I borrowed his
blanket rug.

May you forever toast that bread
at midnight, just before bed.

Yours faithfully,
The Cold.

from www.coffeeshoppoems.com > ALWAYS LOOKING FOR SUBMISSIONS

JLB Nov 2011

The Origin of Self

Me;
Before You, I was
Steeping in an invented
Self.
Comfortably
Immersed in
Oblivion.

You;
You looked at me,
With kind eyes,
Having seen so much
Failure;
Nonetheless eager
To try.
Nonetheless willing
To be the
Extractor of my
Soul;
Unclogging the drains
Plugged with vile
Misconceptions.
Filtering the murky mere,
Instituting
Clearer waters.
Affirming that I had been
A victim of my
Body—
An excess of cells, merely
Bitter
Of their ephemeral
Purpose,
So concealing the
Intellect—
That which was
Truly sacred.

Us;
Philosophers;
Bathing in our own
Blood.
Thinking and feeling—
Basking in
Questions.
All for the sake of
Some redemption.
Claiming an awareness of
The world,
And dismissing the
Futile cycle of
Our mission.
Nonetheless,
We are eager—
Willing
To try.

Mike Hulstrom Sep 2017

Leeches

See three dimensions, the vision is blending, not to mention
Never prepared for funerals he pretends he’s attending

Scatter thought; chatterbox, planning mad hatter plots
Like neighborhood ballers posting up on the block,
Flood the hot-spot and set up a rock shop,
Got gems and minerals with more in stock
The lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, can’t be stopped
Because three more always grow where the last head chopped

In his lair, tearing through the rarest of known tomes
Bloodied, preparing, bearing home-grown pheromones
While atoned-postponed rambo reloads ranged ammo
This ****** Stallone, left alone, changes the channel
He’s amorphous on his own
His thesaurus is his zone
Choruses to juxtapose
It’s just gorgeous when he glows
Like a broke back mat smacking crack to the dome
The knick-knack paddy-wack gives this dog a bone

One of zero ***** given.
Proposition; my vision
Requisition:
Mass transmission
Free the minds imprisoned.
Send them off christened,
Eyes bright, glistened
Blood thickened, muscles;
tightly stiffened
Sick with bliss, concisely conditioned
Well provisioned, and on a mission
Kids’ just wishin’
Fishin’ for dishin’s
Switchin’ positions like politicians

With destination anticipation
An explanations is all they’re craving
Get what’s deserved for misbehaving
Even adulated need saving
Jolly Rodger’s what’s left waving
Until the tomb needs engraving
El Dorado:
Yellow brick road, gold pavement

Just let your will blend from birth to urn
Cause I have to spend some worth to earn
Just like the
Sun comes round the bend come burst and burn
Me and the Earth, we’re both cursed to turn

Mind in a mutter, from the throat-cutter utter
Off cluttered, from sputtering up soft butter

Projectile vomitin’
Simple sad homonyms
Bent ones that haunted him
**** ones that taunted him

Crash, fell bumping a paladin’s ballad
Yelling from the cell, a hell that’s padded
Plain scabbard belt fastened
Brain splattered, well contrasted
Gotta face it, it’s just a facet
Haphazard basic *******

Dazed, he laid lazy in a field of daisies, crazy
still failing life in spite of praises, does not phase me

Never fully try, never fully fail, never succeed
He smokes **** ‘til his failure’s guaranteed

Somebody makes the calls; Atlas shrugged ‘neath it all
Pedestal built too tall; perhaps the world will fall

Out in the desert Kashmir looms like a mirage
Or am I breathing exhaust fumes in the garage

What good is my happiness, my reason, justice, or pity?
I don’t know why you’d ask me this, but I guess it’s all ******

Fight my battles rolling downhill,
Sit back while my verbs and nouns spill
Words not meant to astound, but still
Chill

I’m palm stroking broke minds
With ****** soaked rhymes

I can occur just like a canna crop trafficker
I infer with calipers; as amateurs get massacred
Like melon to Gallagher
A gallon of palaver
What else can you do but take the beat and ravage her

Precision thumbs commissioned this slurred-dumb, late ***
With blood, sweat and tears smeared on the surgeon's apron

Brazen, boring, shameless; facetious
What a ****** thesis to teach us, I mean, Jesus

Witness the riots;
Sit back in silence,
Eyeless; In a crisis
Righteous, feeling timeless

I’m a weak witted weapon without suppressants
At my peak, spit blessings that best luminescence
Testing, expressing questions;
a primordial presence
Learning lessons of the essence,
Leaning in ******* obsessions
Now back to the digressions,

Enchant the mic and pass her
a wish to go follow gets a focal fracture
By the aficionado postal slasher
My vocals compact like a dope oil extractor
Spoke, spat, and risen from the earth like the rapture
Lyrics locked in; like ‘final answer’
Do a vinyl transfer
Sample and enhance her

Burn sweetest flowers hourly
The meanest greenest sour D
Take a bouquet the day he take a dowry

Fine divine entwined nugs
Unwind with the kind bud
And when it comes to this composition;
Just try it; succumb
Peel open a dub, recline, combine lovely drugs and paper.
loses loose shrubs, keeps his grip: shrugs and taper
Lick with the spit on the tip of the tongue, and savor
Chip off the old lungs, word to pops, mums and neighbors
Long lasting, juicy like a fruity gum flavor
Meet your maker, brute ****! Astute *** behavior

Faulty wiring in our brains
Exalt me as I complain
Are we just Abel's and Kane's, soon to be slain?
Perhaps maybe just a tune to be played?
Who keeps the balance of pleasures between pains
Who breaks silence for treasures? Who’s blood stains?
Dang

As I think it through, inhale and breathe fumes
I fail to read moods, but still I’ll seek tunes
As the green room’s groove looms
And the smoke plumes perfume
He unleashes leeches,
the deed is; eat his wounds

Jon Hanlan Aug 2019

Laid Back, On The Ranch

Extractor of those awfully embedded times
That traveling memory, hidden in the back of worn suitcases
Brown leather and ties, like no remorse
Those breaths imparted, w/ lasting glare
The smoky windows in beat up wagons
Split lips from the boys on back loan
Wartimes, dragging utter sadness from the porch swing
Lost a tooth, and that made it smooth
Soothe the pain, w/ pints of tipsy water
We watch the sunset, in the field next door
Kissed & dangled, our bust behind us
Tumbled in the meadow, w/ no one else around
The boy I brought home is the same I fought
Every night, we tossed and paddled
Had I known, he would stay w/ me, forever
The girls from Seventh Ave. tickled me
W/ their stunty eyes and elongated dresses
Wishing, for a moment, we were out: the kids, picnic party w/ the club
Pa saw it in my eyes, the mailman and I
Even at the table with the shipped ashes and ol’ rummy
Playing hard to get with nothing but straight chaser
The mirror became such ferment to my frame
I began perturbing every milking like a daily lashing
And soon protruded my perimeters into giant horned gnats
Ground crackling and separated with ceaseless dust storms
Divided, on the fence back in the meadows watching it rain afar
In the familiar fields I laid, now a barbaric, decoded passing
I walk to the cellars every now and again, with my badges
Discreetly pacing the acreage, for a taste of interim regression
Now with no bandages nor luggage to carry my born chores

#gay #southern #straight #lgbt #dinner #story

Edward Coles May 2014

Settling Into Sleep

He buys his fashion from the Red Cross,
from the blind, the deaf, and the distracted.
In afternoons, he trades sobriety for a smile,
as he sears his pork-chops,
as he sweats beneath the extractor fan.

There are too many poems in life.
They average out the anomalies,
and so all brilliance is masked in utter failure,
and all mistakes become wonders
in their misdirected sorrow.

He drinks in the middle of the day,
surrounded by broken families and students.
He's planning the next beer or cigarette,
miles away from a career path,
and from holding down any sort of job.

There are a million songs in the sky.
Tortures are fickle and all ***** is demise.
And so, we immediately spark into dance,
as we drink and carve our names upon our tombs,
keeping our ear out for the establishment blues.

He buys friends with his preferential smile.
It causes quietude in all and any aggression.
In all fits of mood and dissolution of fact,
he reminds himself that change is tomorrow,
if only he learns to fall asleep unaided.

c

Cripp May 2013

lose

looks like I'm about to lose my heart to her
I'd like to lose something else to her

her mouth looks like a good extractor....

TheIdleOwl Dec 2019

55

I try to listen to my feet now,
Hear the crunch before it begins,
The lime green of the leaves,
Sings on as my hair thins

Will someone come to save us,
Has the extractor lost its legs
I woke up in this hell hole,
And everyone had lost their heads,

And I just wish that the sun,
Would evaporate all I've won,
It all ascends invisibly,
Like life before a gun

#rhyme

Jordan Gablehouse Jul 2019

Hashicog

Hold your ground
She stalks the towers.
Neath the banner of your freedom.
She's a demon. You feel the talons
Pull you down into the bowels
Of her being.... she speaks in madness.
Magic and ***. Her ancestors ancient beings of summer seasons. clearly they dislike the company she frequents... when she's in the hands of men who feed greed and take no mercy in their dealings

Be warned she's not the least bit
Harmless or defenceless.
When you see her
She's a mortal soul extractor.
Razor teeth. And gorgeous features..
That sink her teeth
Deep in your tissue.
Till your so relaxed you hardly feel her. But the real her....
Is deviant. A fiend.
A winged serpent. Known by Those who keep her. .......As a beast of God's good medicine they
Swear. She's an ancient form of healer.

I miss her if I'm honest
She treats me bad.
And that hurts my feelers.
Just know when my kids learn about her.
Shell meet them under the safety and guidance of their teachers

Writing about ****. Kinda ******. I know alot of people on this site dislike me. I'm not a true artist or I'm a psuedo intellect. But I got a lot of good **** going fof me. God love ya I ain't mad

Jemia de Blondeville Apr 2022

Extracted

I was phoned today
And told
That my application
For an extractor fan
Was to be put on hold
The caller was very apologetic
I reassured him
That i realised
That it would of been
An unlikely thing
As i was three floors up
Where even bees did not sting
And that much scaffolding
Would of been needed
A cost to much
To be conceded
He sounded pleased
And surprised
At my positive response
And that my understanding of the reality
Was there to Ensconce
I also said
Not to worry
Ive never been
Or seen
To be a fan of tractors
Thus not an
Ex tractor fan!

by Jemia

— The End —