"grills" poems
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors, I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Humans are stardust.
Nothing more
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.
And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.
I think the reason some of us like the smell of gasoline,
Or the smell of a charred grill,
Or just things burning,
Is because that's what they say space smells like.
And think those few of us
Who enjoy the smell of gasoline,
Charred grills,
And burning things,
Are those of us who somewhat remember
Being nothing more, and nothing less, than a star.
And I think the only people who can remember being stardust
Are the newest and oldest of souls.
Because they're the ones closest to both
The beginning
And the end.
And, while I know it hurts to remember
Things you cannot fathom,
I think there's something beautiful--
Strangely beautiful.
Obscurely beautiful,
In having lived so many lives
Yet still remembering when you were the very first you.
Humans are stardust.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.
And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
thoroughly babbling,
whatever,
etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools
The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.
"What's on your mind?"
Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
when me an Gnat split
we kept our eyes open,
cause we could close them,
behind blindness,
and I could take her soul
for nothing,
and I could keep it forever,
so now what we do,
is set fire to those
in the same situation,
we put their hearts
on our grills,
and tell them to wait
until they have regained
the fire,
so then,
society wasn't ready
for the realest ****** alive,
becuase by then
society
had told them
that ******
emos,
true-ass emos,
them *************
could just drop
everything
to keep you on the low-low,
and they were the realest
I ever knew.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
Ever since their music was packaged and hit the scene,
It has supplied the drug needs of the neighborhood teen.
They try all kinds of piffs during their time to listen,
From Common to the DJ Drama's pay attention.
Gangsta Grills, Dedication, even the radio station
Dropped out from Registration post-poning their graduation
To the new age of crack, being played back to back
On the Sirius XM or that playlist in your lap.
Ipod's and MP3's are the new portable blunts,
Pop in the food & liquor my Lupe to get full and drunk.
So puff, puff, pass until your circle is fully high,
Off of cyphers, freestyles, and the music from the wise.
No matter your preference whether it is ***** or clean,
We can be seen as a walking, talking music fiend.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
My room has five walls
(and yes, I am not counting the ceiling).
Wall one!
It is the one with door which opens only from the inside.
So you gotta knock first to get in.
Advance apologies; You might not be entertained.
Wall two!
A window, the oldschool metaphor for freedom
with its thin iron grills and a broken pane
now serves ventilation purpose.
Wall three!
Useless it may seem, but this one is the most equipped.
With its big pale switch board crucified on it;
This walls commands the life here.
Wall four!
The proof of my existence,
this wall holds the old photographs with the pride of an artist.
I hate looking at this wall;
“Staring directly at sun may cause damage to the retina.”
Wall five!
This one is my favourite.
I could doodle over it again and again
and then hide behind the screen of my laptop.
Facebook! It’s funny to think about sometimes.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
Fight or flight
That was my plight
Distracted driver
Temporarily took my power
Praying for sleep
Counting the sheep
It’s like treading water in the deep
Can I keep pushing through?
Not sure quite what to do
Visions of chrome grills
Drenched with chills
Flashback night
Nightmare day
Will this ever go away?
EMDR
Got back to driving the car
Taking buspar
Have I come that far?
One foot in front of the other
A daily mantra loaned by my brother
It’s important to only focus on today
It’s all we have, wise people say
Life is an ongoing journey
So very grateful for His mercy
I continue to battle and refuse to cower
After all, I’ve learned I’m no fragile flower
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
In this life, I have seen the valley of broken dreams filled with the souls of taqueria entrepreneurs. I have seen gleaming grills, Hispanic frills, greasy thrills. I have seen spirit thrive in the eyes of men armed with bank loans and family recipes. I have eaten their food, delicious beyond necessity. I have experienced the magic of taquerias and restaurants.
And I have seen that magic die.
I've observed the life unfold, unfurl with a magic to behold. I have seen that magic served in a half-empty restaurant that Frontera has outsold. I have had the magic gone, replaced by payday lenders and takeout from Taiwan. I have seen empty storefronts and the straggling last days of taqueria entrepreneurs. And I grieve every time at the lost loans and lost hopes left behind. But tonight, there will be no grieving. Instead,
Let us eat magic in their memory, enjoy the grease that will surely send us to infirmaries. Let us celebrate the time they had, the tortas, tamales, and leftovers taken home in a bag. Let us celebrate the doomed Mexican restaurants.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
~~
This is where the earth
There were piles of refuse time
Over millions of years
Wants to stand up
Walk the walk where the stand
Hundreds of thousands of
Light-years away
My friend, the North Star
Of his many friends
Lost in the pit of time
Mother's hair grew gray
All sides of the wall
Of the house has broken
Rust is over the grills of window
Said goodbye to dreams
White childhood,
Blue adolescence,
The red color of youth,
Instead of
Bruises under the eyes
Sending love to the jail
My friend is now hanging
within four frames of the wall
This is where the earth
Everything turns to be
A graveyard
Gray ash color valley
On that
History's foot print
will be exist
Nobody did not come back
The sun may never
rise again
Love is beneath
the silent dark of trash
All the truths will be turned
into devour
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
To tell the story of the nice-guy
is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.
There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy. There is no effort
to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms
on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.
Tomorrow, in Houston,
a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.
There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed
and the children he prescribed himself.
Three daughters,
from fifteen to twenty-two.
Tiramisu for dessert.
Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs
and innocence buried behind the woodshed.
Pretend now, that you are forgiven.
Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets
float like chemtrails.
You love you as much as the world always did.
You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy,
you have only lived in the glow of their light. Hearts remain full.
The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop
and bluejeans still mask imperfections. Sunsets are memorable,
and so are first dates and last kisses.
Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.
Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds,
satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.
Forget your father’s words
or a stranger's hand.
Forget improbability, impossibility,
impotence, importance,
impatience
and improper goodbyes.
Forget the tears cried alone
into ***** filled sheets at midnight.
Forget the effect but remember the cause,
camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.
Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways
that turned words flaccid.
Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends
and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.
Nice-guys vanish like good ideas,
lost in the shuffle,
looking for pen and paper,
just like house cats die
on the forth of July,
and all that’s left are ashes
on a mantel
alongside fraudulent grins.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
**he had little to give, but gave it still
from his warm and generous heart
beating with a love pure and good
for his sister's children
so he seized the moment to stamp a value on my mind
gave me his prized bronze bottle opener
a fringe benefit from some fat kitchen where once he worked
with hot spices, sizzling grills and artistic salads
and now i have lost it, a thing of more than sentimental value
these gestures can never be repeated
they are the products of inspired moments
when somehow you know there can never be another chance
to leave some evidence that you too were here**
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
like a sword resplendent in cosmic splendour
you struck my horizon desolate
dazzling arc of your luminous reach devouring
several clouds of my ache
dealing a blow on icy lock on existence’s grills
conquered your blade in might
the relentless ravaging rave of demons within
in sun of March by my bend, like a gurgling
stream you flowed
wooing my weary existence in longing thirst
with a swallow of dare
into twirls of your currents I yielded my leap
but soon began to creep
within, healing waters of meaning deep
arose from the spring of your ceaseless warmth
a bouquet of sunbeam dreams
blossomed scented beds of roses red a hundred
sunshine shadow or rain
to dye in cheer my heart your rainbow thoughts
and ever shall remain entwined with
every breath of mine haunting fragrance of yours
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
Used to be half a dozen gray geese
in our town's central pond.
Used to strut out on the road
to attack trucks. Grills, tires. Pecking.
If you honked a car horn at them,
then you were speaking their language.
They'd hiss and cuss you out.
Folks in town got so fed up
with those geese that we did exactly that:
fed up on them.
So, stranger,
welcome to our local tavern.
Let me buy you a drink.
Just don’t cuss anybody.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard
black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries
and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th
and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood
and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's
closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets
permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye
she lived alone..
~ P
(7/8/2013)
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
We see the youngens, they little bait,
but once we hooked them,they'll be
piranha's in our tank, stripping the
dignity from out of your
voice in 20 seconds flat.
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
We strung up your boys, gasping for air.
But once we got our hooks on you
were gutting you easy.
But not before we get what we need from
your pleads.
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
Look little fish you in a tank of sharks,
we grin our grills gravestones of what you
see last before your dispatched.
But don't you worry there are plenty to keep
you company down there, you ain't the first
and you ain't going to be the last.
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
We got nicknamed the fisherman, we sail into
your town catching what ever we want.
We don't scrap the sea floor hoping
for a catch. We fish for the real deal.
Disillusioned of the fish bowl they swimming in.
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
Making it even easier to catch, to turn them from
neighbourhood trash to one of our sharks.
showing other that once we got you hooked,
the only way you leaving is dead floating at the
bottom of the tank.
We coming to your postcode.
We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
letting go, fact.
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 6:23 PM UTC
*On the grills the rust
Stands in stark contrast
To your serene eyes
They see it all
Ocean black eyeball
Still hold surprise
Brimming passion
What love in that ocean
Your pleading eyes
It makes me pause
There’s no greater cause
For a passerby
Your gestures bold
Said words untold
Your droopy ear
Ever so keen
To lovingly listen
Holds a stranger dear
You looked at me
With a loving plea
Oh passerby
Greet me awhile
Lend me a smile
For that I die*
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
She was born to my mom, with tiny fingers and hands two
Little hairy, big eyes, lashes pretty and ****
I saw her through glass doors and window panes
Wanted to touch her, hold her, squeeze her like an insane
She kicked her legs quick, crawled, the toddler was wise
Innocence blinked from her beautiful eyes
Raw words blurted out of her mouth
"Deedee, Deedee", louder her shout
Carry her around in my arms everywhere
Tell her a short story, round bed we’d share
Made her do all the naughty things
Break some rules, climb up the grills
I played music of an odd band
She tapped her feet, and clapped her hands
Adorable dress I’d make her wear
Barbie doll, so pretty and stare
Seven pony tails, for fun I tied
Few small fights over which we cried
Hot chocolate every night we share
Never knew so much you would care
Don’t ever stop dancing my little Sis
Swing along the wind, pace brisk
I’ll be here if you need to fall back
Hold your hand tight and never slack
You’re my best friend, you’re my soul
Two of us make best of all
In you a little I live
Luck knew what it had to give
Seeds we sow, little plants we grow
Always know, I love you so
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
You search for the answer
Of your survival
All you find is old dust
On the books
Across the fields
Through a pile of sand
Hunched behind the wheat
A girl
And her grills
You talk to her in muffles
Standing on her truffles
And she scowels
An owl watches
Truth hidden behind his eyes
He wants to tell you
But you won't listen
He's just a bird
A caress over your brow
Sends you into sleep
Where you search for answers
But only find images
Friends; Cameras; Buttons; Relaxation
Planets; Mantarays; Bottles; and Scabs
What do they mean?
Questions fill your meat
As your feet lift into the air
And you become a hero.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Conversations linger in the air like water vapour,
As well looked-after manicured fingers sip multicoloured
cocktails out of silly straws,
and grip tightly on hourglass shaped glasses
lipped with sugar and lip-gloss.
Its 5:30 and the incongruous smells of barbecue
from balcony grills, and squid and
grilled haloumi and garlic from the Almond Bar behind me and
sweet gelatos and small cream cakes from the narrow shop called Messina
seem to brush every sense. The whole suburb speaks.
The walls whisper behind
me and the grey concrete slabs speak a language that I can't interpret. Apathetic
hipsters gaze blankly at the street from the stairs of their apartment block.
What a pleasurable patchwork pastiche that pulsates through my senses.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 6:08 AM UTC
383 small block, double-hump heads,
fuel injection, supercharger
a midnight cruise
flaming hot licks on black lacquer paint
street lights blowing past
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Road signs, blue eyes, blonde hair,
cherry red lips framed in a billet mirror
long legs hang under
a plaid mini-skirt straddling
a 4-speed.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Exhaust fumes, tire smoke,
high octane fuel, perfume
waters both mouth and eyes
Detroit steel never smelled this good
Red fingernails dig denim at 5500 rpm.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Chrome bumpers, chrome grills,
chrome smiles, chrome thrills.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
black chile o' mine...
the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs
the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide
who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie
and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni
a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side
black chile o' mine...
on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye
blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress
quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture
twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights
classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"
and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee
why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines
black chile o' mine...
flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook
tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter
while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential
and fulfill
the dream of slaves
gather dust...
you betta get your act right!
back chile o' mine...
~ P
(7/19/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC