"hampers" poems
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
The Time was odd,
The people were even
We were born,
From womb to heaven,
With small fingers, cute face;
We came in the world by god’s grace.
We learnt to walk, then to talk,
Then to hear and later to bear,
Surrounded by toys And Hampers,
We were loved, we were pampered.
Life was good, life was going,
And there were we, totally enjoying
Nice clothes, tidy hair,
Tightened boots, roaming here and there,
We slept when we wished,
We ate at our own risk,
No thinking of what doing next,
No tension to make the present perfect
The time was good,
The mind was free.
The life was going as we destined it to be.
That's what meant childhood to me
--------- Aakash Joshi
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Emergent and forming I feel a storm is imploring that soon without any warning you beg to cross a line
Every time, nothing is sacred but sacramental complacence is marked as roles of the shameless
Mean to skip a line another time? Is this too rough and obtuse for a cutie like you to boost the power line?
Number 9, completion is power and stricken chords every hour proceed to timeline devour those daily entities
I do decree that opposition to me is free and withered beatings to meetings, detours and dealings
understanding demands of variable plans is held by the hand that feeds the depleted need
I see it from every angle, the tangle, the multishifted frame though it dangles, I can't be stuck in my own head when
I see the reflections of me in the treasure it jangles, brings into focus where my head fell to float in the
moments set to wrangle, pull it in, dwell upon the good and discard where it hampers new fangled notions like
truth effusions of love and devotion are swallowed up in the daily ocean of noise traffic, the more verbose,
Graphic dispatches matches blasted disasters dashed and rash past distractions amass magic attacks balanced
Secular motion entwined with metaphysical potions, divided what is your quotient? It doesn't add up in this
moment.
Interpersonal, intergalactic, universal assertions disturbed by verbage of outrance
Message mismanaged mischief mallaeble mayhem managed maganamously mallicous mannered when I
would proclaim them. Members materialized meriting masturbatory movements and monetized
malappropriation I have no patience nor pathos for indiscriminant egos demonstrating a tangent as canon and
paralyzing progressions toward psychic visions of heaven, eyes as the cosmos, and pressures upended.
I'll cope with associations disastrous and tainted, but keep in my visage all that scratches my lenses
I know far too much to be content with the situation, but far too little to shatter falsehood's intitiation
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
I
I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.
II
I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance
III
Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.
IV
Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.
V
I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room
and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party
Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish
VI
Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.
VII
The patterns on your pants
Could make a designer cry;
But I hung on to your stance:
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.
VIII
Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.
IX
What happens to lost pants?
Do they stiffen up
like paper as it dries?
Or do they balloon up —
and into the sky rise?
X
I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC
**I read an ad recently
‘Get your Valentine’s day hampers while they last, order in advance lest you be disappointed’
But what I really read was…
'Get your Valentine’s day humpers while they last, order in advance lest you be disappointed’
Because I’m a clown like that
I make light of this day ‘Valentine’s’
The fourteenth day of the second month of every year
That makes everyone realize how attached or alone they are… really, I find that the most stupid fear...
Is the fear of not being paired up… yet
I say ‘yet’ because it’s going to happen sooner or later, more than once
Like it has happened before
But oh, you want to sulk and sob in your depressingly darkish room… behind the self made prison that is your closed door
Because you just want to wallow in self pity… because you're so low
Forever alone
Call me a *****
And a realistic one at that I like to think
But I find this entire obligation to have someone on this day quite unnecessary… which makes me kind of curious
As to who is really authentically ‘in’ love
And who is apparently “in love” for convenience reasons
These self made prisons
I joke through this day… with female friends, my true Valentines
No charades, no pretentious antics
Just funny nonsense with the coolest, realest fun chicks
To all those that have their better halves… well "power to you"
Way to go, we’re happy for you
You probably enjoy the most out of this day ‘Valentine’
I didn't mean to sound conceited… for we are all allowed to court
To be arrested by passion, maybe I’ll get past these ‘flings’ and also have my day in court…
Yeah, maybe someday I will have mine
Again.**
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
A house perched
On solid foundation
Provides shelter for a generation.
Homes aren't made of brittle bricks,
Wanning woods or crumbling stones;
You can't raze a well-built home.
A divided house will not stand,
A listing castle on shifting sands.
The peaks, dales and family travails,
At home are not abnormal,
They're common and diurnal;
Yet the undaunted home prevails.
Your house comprises various rooms
For eating, sleeping, and mundane routines.
Homes furnish rooms with smiles and tears,
And gatherings throughout your years,
To be shared or on one's own,
The choice is offered,
You're not alone.
Houses grow proud, though gratifying,
With amenities truly satisfying.
Homes swell with smells of love,
The sounds of children snug above,
A sense that all is safe and sure;
This day has given more than enough.
Houses get tidied, cleaned and aired,
Decorated for special affairs;
Homes are fingers, toes and hair,
Hampers, dishes, and underwear.
Its doors lead to who knows where.
Doors to let you out;
Doors to let me hear
When you're back again;
Welcoming your return.
Homes fill us
With memories
Houses never will.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
I’m tortured, beaten, whipped, punished, bitten, cut, stabbed, torn, heartbroken, and surrounded by people who love me. I’m abused, used, and tossed away, and not a single person hates me. I’m useless, weak, falling, dashed, and everyone sacrifices themselves for me. I’m struck and bruised when you stretch out a hand to help me up. I bleed where you caress me. My bones break when you try to hug me. My ears ring when you say “I love you”.
I lose my sight when you turn on the light.
So I run from you. I hide so you can’t slice my heart with caring words. I shield myself from you so you can’t shoot me with selflessness. I strike back in anger so your love won’t **** me.
I seized fear as my weapon, for it is the eternal enemy of love. If I make you scared of me, it hampers the love. And I did.
But it didn’t.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
miss
the smell of baby neck and
***** handprints at **** level from
damp and funky hugs fresh from outside...
two against one
wrestling matches and
hide-and-go-seek in
closets and clothes hampers with
indian war paint
made of toothpaste...
Lifetime-Channel-cries (for her)
with crab legs and scrimps... and
steak and Stone Cold Steve Austin (for him)
cuz "real men (even little ones) eat beef"... and
don't do Lifetime Channel...
the sometimes uncomfortable feel
of heartfelt children's advice
as only they can give it
basic and to the point...
laughing... and sometimes crying
but laughing again
eventually...
oh
how i do miss
that which was
in its time
so taken for granted...
gone for good
into their audacious
adulthood
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
souls toughened by pain
small grains are a blessing
while sharp stones release demons
the salt and water cleanse and heal
dancing will never be the same
dad likes barefoot pictures, hes crazy
the long lost brothers to our fingers slowly shriveling away
dirt comes and goes...as do shoes and nails
even though its natural, noone seems to accept our roots
smell collects and hampers their ability
i was once told that a persons shoes say a lot about their personality
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC
A-ware which my Profession affects, no doubt
Or Risk those Demoralised Bankers percieve
Perhaps a Warning which your Crown enspout
Dissolve my Tears since that Gun-Man's reprieve
Are all these your Receipts? Claims to your Stub
That which hampers my Earthed Reputation
My Mind - enwracked - make Alien to your Hub
All enjoy but your Ghost Computation
I can find no Faults; Save which I create
Then prove foulest Links as mortally mine
To leave you Pure; And pursue your Heart's Mate
Then kiss her Program for Sentiments fine.
Be as it may, such Sentiment can hurt
Yet still fine, for this Medicine convert.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
anxiety stampers on my stomach
worry hampers with my heart
in my throat there lies a hummock
slowly tearing me apart
as it sits there, suffocating
obstructing my wounded airways
my mental health begins degrading
and leaves me in a foggy haze
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
The figure moved; "let by gones be by gones
n'all" called the other reaching for gun.
Shadow flashed, eyes witnessed unsong;
"bound soul flitting shade bound, n'all!" gun sung.
As the bank clerk accosted sought shelter,
the barrelled void looked on with glee. Happy?
What a time to shine we've a belter,
and I'll betch ya bare presents from me.
Animate beings the devils in deets
Replete we so are and we suffer.
In-animacy, the terms quite discreet,
and our ignorance hampers our buffer.
For guns everywhere, unloading despair,
pushing and crushing; the barrels grim stare.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
Laying in bed with feet
I can smell from the other end of me,
with a poster of Malcolm X
and one of Rosie the Riveter.
A suitcase full of lights,
a wooden violin case,
a pull up bar,
a briefcase full of comic books,
and my bag.
Barely room for me.
No internet tonight.
Bad television.
A cardboard box
missing a panel, that reads,
"size matters!".
Tired. Alone.
Packed up all my books.
Moving into half of a home;
no toilet, no kitchen sink,
fridge is broken, paint missing,
smells weird, windows are *****
everything is smaller and we
have too much ****
so far all we have is electricity and
light.
Three hampers full of clothes,
two amplifiers, 5 guitars,
2 keyboards, a television,
a dresser, and a night stand.
Also a bed.
Whats left to go.
Me.
Cigarette smoke fills the rooms,
but it isn't mine obviously.
Still fills my lungs.
Fills my soul.
Commercial voices
fill the rooms.
Lust for sleep.
I wanna wake up somewhere
more comfortable than here.
Every insect in this room owns it
as much as I do now.
Nowhere to run.
I'm on a ship and I'm scared,
I'm not panicking, but
I'm scared of drowning.
Sinking has ceased to
stir my fears, because
the reality of drowning
has been realized.
Nothing can be fixed anymore,
least of all by me.
Cracks in the hull.
No iceberg,
just pressure.
I'm the type to choke in puddles,
so I'd say I'm handling well.
Hallways full of trash.
No furniture here… just **** on the floors.
I was concerned that I wouldn't
have my **** together when this happened
and it appears to be the exact opposite.
It's a darker comedy, that's for **** sure.
I'd sell everything if someone would
just ******* buy it, and if you feel that
then hold a lighter to the sky
for me tonight while
I'm still here.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Does anyone know
Really
That the ends of life are….
Rattled with dried
Labors
Notes left to oneself
Be true
Good
Play dead.Suffer little children.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
Suffering into the light
Heal
The last time was so close.
I don't write what you want.
when I was young
Is a song.
I, however, a l …am a broken slab.
A well of drenched
marinade.
You could save me
Yet…you
Fold my poetry over
Into
Daylight’s
Hampers.
Wherein I lie.
Crimped
edges of a
Masterpiece
Caroline Shank
March 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC
since the hour left when our voices were together blended like a mousse apples in the oven baking like a cake feathers in the dressers hanging like a rake lips are moving but i can’t hear the words you are saying your face is gloomy moody like the birds with strands of rope and sheets of cotton make a nest in hampers for laundry and light for nothing autumn summers humid air arias drifting everywhere Polynesian seasonings feet on the ground forms are wasted in the clouds fade again has no end fingers stroke toes and hair we make love in gardens make jokes and touch each others bodies i am making flying carpets silhouettes on a page silent like rage houses the same dancers are awake does it apply and can we supply oh apple of my eye and pear of my ear dreamer of the earth what will appear its apparently clear that grief is profound and so is the sound of water splashing down i drown in pounding waves one breaks so please come and save me again today
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
mother, don't you know
I feel so fortunate
to snuggle next to you
like a child,
like those years
of sticky lollipops
and scraped knees,
of hiding in hampers
and dashes across fields of grass
to have no fear
of being pushed away,
I am still very much
that little girl
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC