"hamper" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
Did I win or lose?
Perhaps-maybe nature won.
One less spin cycle,
Gallons of life water saved.
In my intellectual hemitage
I find a difference can be made,
Oh underwear,
Spirit of nature,
First I wear you proper,
And the day is good.
I walk forward into the morrow
And turn the world backwards.
Yes the tag now goes to front,
And wedgies aside, all is well.
In the instantaneous moment
Ina departure of normalities,
Confronted with a bundle of reflections,
I move into day three,
Inside out.
The days have dispersed,
I wreak of the third day,
Still a difference has been made.
I take off the underwear,
Crispy and tainted,
With a lump in my throat
And a little hope I made a difference,
The underwear is sacrificed to the hamper.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
You are my uniform
You give me confidence
You make me look sophisticated
Professional, and sovereign
I sport you with pride
At the end of the day
I crumple you into a ball
And toss you in the hamper
A new uniform awaits
Pressed in the closest
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
**"how can you be in bed so fast?
we just got home five minutes ago?"***
*You got girlie stuff to do babe.
unlock the front door,
thirty steps
to our bed.
maybe stop to basketball shoot
***** clothes into a swish
of the hamper's netting
or,
maybe not.
turn off the overhead left handed in
a single motion, a highlight video,
both left foot socks
hid in the snow boots,
outside the front door.
you understand.
my unseen
girlie stuff,
requires me in state of ******
while you be
prepping.
face washed, creamed,
hair n' tooth brushed,
other stuff,
unmentionable.
am doing
my thing...
my girlie stuff*
starting a
poem interruptus
my pre-Coitus exercise,
just a new love poem
conception,
initiated,
doing my thing,
waiting on you
primped n'pumped,
décolletage clad,
to give me that
girlie stuff
closing stanza
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Harried, Harassed, Hassled and Hounded-
These are the H-words I work by.
Harpies and Henchmen, Harridans and Heathens-
These are the H-folk I work with.
Hubbub and Hokum and Hurly-burly-
These are the places I do it.
Hoodlums and Hooligans, loaded with Hubris-
These are the clients I deal with.
Heartless and Horrible, Hateful and Hurtful
These are the attitudes around me.
Hopeless and Hapless, Haggard and Helpless-
This is the way I usually feel.
What happened to Happy, and Hopeful and Harmony-
These are the H-words I search for.
Hinder and Hobble, Heckle and Hamper-
These are the Hamstrings that trip me.
Heaven and Harmony, Humor and Honor-
These are the things that I strive for.
Havoc and Hades, Hurt, Hate and Hauteur-
These are the H’s that I have to conquer.
Hope, Help, and Herculean effort-
Is How I will finally get myself Home.
ljm
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
Waking up to hazy mornings.
To the bitter cold days of
Early Spring.
I've never seen such a beautiful sunrise.
Nine o' clock cigarettes during
The morning rush.
Saturday morning cigarettes
That muddle my head.
The chilly air mimics the smoke
Spewing from my lips,
Toxins sticking to my lungs
Like glue.
It's another day in Paradise.
The dishes in the sink
Pile up in mountains.
Like the skyscraper laundry stack
Overflowing in the hamper.
Just another day in Paradise.
The street lamps glisten as strings of pearls
Their light reflecting off the silver glare of traffic barrels.
The flowers have not arrived.
The flowers have not bloomed,
And the anxiety is killing me.
Killing me like the coffee craving
Pounding in my head.
The flowers are missing,
Hiding from the stinging cold
Of early Spring.
I've never seen such beautifully dismal skies.
In the mild conversations about the weather,
I tell them that it's never been better.
In a way, it's never been.
I walk down the battleground of sidewalk
And tree roots, the slabs of concrete
cracked and marred by Mother Nature's
Will.
Broken etchings of hopscotch
Blur on the gritty surface, besides
The rose bush peeking out through the
Fence.
They'll never fix these.
Because it's another day in Paradise.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
even the
arm of a
stranger
would be
could be
better than
the *** of
sheets that
isn't warm
not alive
just a sock
that slipped
out of the hamper
that isn't a hand
strewn over
mine, or
the pants carelessly
swung off the
side of
the bed
instead of
a hot foot
twined around
my ankle keeping
me anchored
to something
carnal
or real
to keep me
from floating
away.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
You are the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.
You are the soft thud of the door
As I slip out, unnoticed.
You are the breath I take, emerging from the frigid ocean,
And the light I illuminate upon my arrival home on the blackest of nights.
You are not, however the electricity,
Or lack thereof when the power surges in the midst of an essay.
You may be pleased to know that you are not that song
Overplayed on the radio that never fails to irk me.
You are also not the piu right before the mezzo forte,
For that is me. I am the piu preceding the mezzo forte.
I am the spare tire on the underside of your car,
And I am also the F sharp to the B natural, a few cents flat.
It may not surprise you that I am the negative sign you forgot to distribute,
And the feeling of snow seeping in through your boots.
You are not the feeling of snow seeping in a pair of boots.
You would like to know that you are the smell of a sharpie,
Uncapped for the first time, and you are the excitement of using it first.
You are even the taste of catching the first snowflake of the winter,
And eating the first s’more of the summer.
You are the chap stick, found in the pocket of the pants in the hamper,
Or perhaps even the twenty dollar bill in the other.
But I am the learner’s permit that went through the wash.
I am also the candle whose wick is drowned in its own wax.
I am not, however the smell of the decaying leaves.
You are the smell of the decaying leaves.
You will now and forever be the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
This year,
although I know
that you're keen
to set up that nativity scene,
I'm advocating an alternative means,
a change in priorities
for your generosities.
I'm annointing a reversal,
suggesting you parcel
a hamper of staples
and so turn the tables
on advent doors
that ignore the poor.
I'm asking that you choose
to proclaim the good news
beyond the pews,
to pursue a change of people's views
of what they thought they knew this meant.
Yes, let's reverse this advent
and make something heaven-sent.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
I wanna give you all of my mornings, even though I don't sleep though
Send you endless poems, countless selfies I just hope that you keep those
Locked away to look back on months or years or weeks from now
Make you wonder, make you ponder, make you think somehow
That at one point we were strangers unbeknownst to one another
Now I can't see me as whole if ain't we got each other
There's no me and you or you and I it's just us
Bound by these ties that we create and double knot, praying they never come undone
But if we bend or break I know that you can patch us up
Pray you make me an optimist and keep me from acting up
Hold me down, figuratively or otherwise
Hands pinned down, feign a struggle mesmerized
Look up, see you geeking, cheesing and laughing
Creases deepen on your cheeks and give you wrinkles worth having
Not like the ones when you furrow your brow, pouting and pissy
Mad about some **** I probably did and I hope that you forgive me
Hope the only silent treatment you give me is when you're fast asleep
But if you talk in your sleep I'm cool with it
Just please don't snore
And understand from time to time my hamper is the floor
But I'll always be sure to clean up
Never leave the seat up
And if you've had a long day, let you kick your feet up
Give you a foot rub, let you vent and rant away
And do whatever the equivalent of Netflix and chill is these days
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
her car was painted neon green
had stickers from places she been
and places she dreamed of
the backseat was a bookshelf
and laundry hamper
James Dean has been sighted back there
on nights when she was running the back roads
at a hundred and cup of coffee in her hand
speed talking over the radio playing too loud
you can hear them laughin miles away
shes got a neon green little car
filled with a world of sunshines
filled with a universe of wonders
and a few McDonalds wrappers
few over due books
and a cat named Steve
been up and down the I-95 corridor
living off the beach Hollywood Florida
chilli cheese dogs and coke
and they share the world with the smiles
she has a little neon green car
you don't need much when you already got everything
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Ten minutes ago I cried
wracking, heaving, red-faced,
closed eyes, no-sound sobs behind
my hamper in the corner, craving him
even though he sleeps uncomfortably
4,000 miles away 6 hours
into my future, hostel walls akin to
secrets within--
twenty one pilots blaring
in the space behind my face
and above my throat, unsettling
the anonymity of my lifestyle, indebted,
growing thinner than my frame as
we both fall to the circumstance of youth
chanting the war cry in pub crawls
and hub drawls where his best friend
sits across from the smug smoke in
between cherry lips,
our kissing knees
begging me
to repeat
history--
in an unadulerated, first-time
draft ripped open and stretched
for my next big "portfolio"
that's worth more burning by my own
hand as I run blistering (drunk) through
a hallway which will never be mine like
the bills-rent-direct-deposit rinse repeat
cycle spinning my eyes into glazed over
acceptance of my lot.
But he still sleeps out of reach
while I'm too paralyzed behind this
******* hamper.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
My thoughts are dabbled
across the floor
My memory lies beneath the sink
with the must and the Brillo pads
I flushed my attitude down the john
I think the dog is chewing on my heart
Or buried it someplace
My understanding is somewhere behind the couch
And God, who knows where my self-confidence is
I left my laugh in the hamper
along with my shriveled grin
I think ended up lending out my pride
to the neighbor who never returns things
Oh, the cat must have hacked up on my dreams
I think that's my intelligence somewhere
between the stale Bologna and brandy
And I know that my tolerance
is strewn from the staircase
That must be my willingness
that's collecting mold
I'm pretty sure that's my perseverance
behind the broken lamp post
And is that my trust
underneath that piece of toast
Wait, I think that's my voice
crashing dishes
Or is that my happiness
that's tearing up floorboards
It could be my tranquility
that's tracking dirt in
Are those my wishes
that's tipping over furniture
I can't quiet tell if that's my dignity
or individuality under one of those shoes
Well, whatever it is, I think it's moving
There's a bunch more clutter lying around
and quite a bit more positivity that needs re-homing
I oughta think about cleaning up
but for now
I'll sweep it under the
carpet
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
lovely, banal, **********
she smilingly slides the
respectably slip transparent
around the resistant
pleasurable hips
thighs riotous pulsing
cleaved calves clever
neatly witha3inchheel
sli n g s
it into the hamper
clicks her sway into
the bathroom,
plum-ripe lips juicy) saying
(i'll be out in a jif, hon
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 5:35 PM UTC
Why do i always have to be told
Though indirectly,
but told,
so ******* sarcastically,
with those irritating grins and giggles
'' you know what? you should take part in the beauty contest "
When all i know is that
they have a good reason to
make me feel so on cloud nine for a minute
and down crashing on the ground
with a thud,when i sooner or later
will realise,
no, I've got scars, I've got marks, I've got bruises,
I've got frizzy hair,I've got a skinny bodytype
I've got ordinary clothes, I've got no good pair of heals,like you do.
I dont have the talents to put
makeup on..
duh.
You know it all too well.
i know it,too.
Still,you wanto say it on my face,so that it hits me harder
the time I see myself in the mirror wearing clothes
i feel will make me look alright,just alright.
and then i enter the classroom
seeing all of you guys to be staring at me,
saying,''pooh,you look awesome''
I know why,i know it.
And then as more chicks start to enter,
All I'd want would be to tear my outfit from the middle
throw it away,
rub off that kohl I tried to roughly apply
to kinda accentuate my tiny Asian eyes.
Because all of you guys
look so **** perfect.
so gorgeous.
so rich.
so what we say CLASSY
so IT.
When'll I be enough?
am i always gonna wear those nerdy glasses,
slick back my bangs from my forehead
that hides my scars ..
wear the oversized, boring sweaters,
and pants and shoes,and with books by my side .
Am i never going to be like y'all?
that others want to be like.
who look upto them.
when someone'll be like, ''i wanna be like her"
Can i never be that 'her' ?
can i never get a compliment?
Can i never hold the crown?
or that sachet ?
or the flowers?
or the teddies?
or the hamper?
NO?
i must rather abide with my
unlucky,
hopeless,
shady,
dusky, good-for-nothing
weird life?
Can i never make something out of it,
with my appearance appreciated?
even from people who matter,
from people who live with me
under the same roof?
can ,for once and for all,
i be made feel
enough............
?
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self
as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper
your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a
foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the
sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the
so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all
men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character
his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through
the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your
core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:44 AM UTC
You left crumbs in the butter dish
And empty cereal boxes in the cupboard
You left all the lights on
And the bed unmade
You left the ash tray full
And your hair on the floor
Of the shower
You left my tank top hanging over the lamp
Where you threw it
You left your belt on your jeans
When you dropped them
Carelessly
Into the hamper
You left poems
All over my thighs
In Sharpie marker
You left fresh coffee
On my dresser
And kisses
On my forehead
And then you left
Me
Desperately craving all of it
And not knowing how to live
Without it
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
My name is Amber
and my mind is like a hamper
a storage unit of far holding a ton of information.
processing the temptation
everything is overflowing
but it doesn't hold enough knowing
of what to do with every emotion
or how to deal with anything in motion
instead of holding it all in, like a caterpillar in a cocoon
my mind is a hamper
that ends up leaving me even damper
than the night before
this is all such a bore
because it's always
the
same
god
****
ending.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Reasons why we should study the birds,
a species that's outlived humanity.
Seasons try to tamper feathered herds,
humans hamper their vacancy.
Wonder why they've survived?
it's pretty obvious,
birds can fly.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Do you remember the apple cider?
Your house was always cold, every-
thing was always apples. I never
did get the matching triforce tattoo
with you and that is okay because I
don't like tattoos anyway. You didn't
ruin the Legend of Zelda for me, I
just said that. Remember to drink water.
Remember that everyone you ever meet
is responsible for their own feelings and
their own problems. Remember that lots
of things provide temporary fixes but
never solace.
How about those frogs? Never a silent moment
until I yelled out your window and you lamented
over the amphibious life you stole with the lawn
mower. (I noted that I had caught frogs at my
grandfather's funeral).
Here's to your earliest memory. Standing in a hamper looking out
the window until your mom picked you up. Was there a bucket
involved? Here's to your scars, your split finger, right next to your pinky the red
on your cheeks, the rough texture of your triceps. That other chris in
kindergarten, Mercer? Did he steal your first love? Haven't smelled
your stomach for a year but I am pretty sure it still smells like
leather. Your hair, soft in the middle, rough around the edges.
Will I ever have enough documentation?
You taught me that tap water doesn't **** and that
all you have to do to make anything perfect is add
an egg or two.
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep Breath
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
I saw you in my dreams
Standing akimbo afar from me
Quite ominous as it seems
For you silhouette the darkness I see
I saw you and you saw me
We met gazes in the dark
I notice fear and ecstasy
As your eyes held its spark
I closed my eyes and I wonder
As confusion took over me
I stood there, began to hamper
Thinking of a certain way to flee
I never asked for any of this
nor did I wish it to be real
For everything's just gone amiss
When feelings over spill
I counted seconds, a minute passed
Shook my head as my eyes bats
Feelings cast with broken trust
Shame on me, myself I disgust
You stood there, still as a stone
And I saw smile etched your face
I struck amazed, shivering to the bone
As I woke up to realize this isn't my place
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
to-day I had a lot of washing to do
as I'd let it pile up and accrue
there were shirts and sweaters galore
and socks quite literally by the score
it is always a pleasure
to empty one's laundry hamper
as it makes one feel
like a satisfied camper
with it all been done
and up to date
I can sit down
to cogitate
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
It’s one dollar per load Wednesday and
Time move’s slow at the corner of East Clinton Street
Where under dim flickered fluorescent lamp posts
Tricks tossed in bottles than splashed back in flasks
Flung to back pockets of loiterers at the Laundromat,
Seems to be a prized accessory of the regular.
The regular, leans on washers with leather skin wrinkled wrung hung far from healed bones, like hangers hanging loose clothes. With soapy brain, bleached hair matted like a rats
She remembers rents way past due, Joey about to come through, and hunger is bad.
Fast thoughts surpass the regular
She smiles behind me through glass reflecting washers.
Mouth full of rotting cavities gleam in the mirror, the sass shuffles outside and lights a red for a change of scenery
Waiting hesitantly during weekly ritual
Which entails more steps than her walk up the avenue
Separating the darks from the whites, like Grandma used to
Detergent, unbranded is used sparingly
She folds each article of clothing carefully, basking in each minute
Diligent about cold wash versus perm press best suggests that for her today life is made easy
For the regular, laundry day is a great escape
Because fabric builds fast in those plastic baskets basked with sweat saturated dresses for a baby
And Joey’s boxers
Today the regular can transact funds to feel fresh, dryer warm complacency in jean skirts plagued with rhinestones
Costumes crafted to endure weekend sin
At the corner of East Clinton Street, those who do not feel like feeling when dire deeds did ***** cheap lose meaning; come here to worship or cleansed
Meaning, I can’t seem to haul this hamper of laundry laundered with various v-neck tees tainted by poisonous stains, regretfully sunk to the bottom of cotton follicles
It’s too heavy to toil with
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC