"humidifier" poems
Coughing up the phlegm
I've come to realize, this big surprise
no longer can I keep it to myself
Stuff like this can grow inside the body
and it's snotty
but you need to know the facts now for yourself.
and if the sputum's yellow,
be assured that it is viral
but can spiral
into something worse
a curse or so they say
so take the time to rest
and yes,
drink water and some juice
and for a boost,
vitamin C, 1000 mgs
just twice a day.
and by all means
take your cold to Walgreen, Eckerts, CVS, or Rite Aid,
where there's medicines that might aid and I might add
many brands that you can choose from~
Robitussin stops your fussin'
Advil Sinus for your highness,
by and far my favored Nyquil night-time
is the stuff I get my snooze from
if you've got a fever and it's green
you're infected, should be seen
do not delay if it is grey
or other colors of the day
because these bugs are nasty
downright mean!
cozy up with Vicks upon your chest
mentholatum tends to clear the passage best
a little dab will also do
beneath the nares it is true
external balms and lotions help you rest.
a clean humidifier by the bed
keeps the moisture in your tissues
and that said
keep a box of Kleenex near
the softest kind will feel most dear
and place your favorite pillow 'neath your head.
It's good to keep some chicken soup on hand
it's value has been known throughout the land
keep the heat on, be a ***** and
and crack the window just a pinch
and try to sleep as much as you can stand.
in time you will recover from this hell
your symptoms will subside and you can tell
but be sure to keep your guard up,
avoid crowds
and don't be hard up,
just insist they keep their distance,
and stay well!
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
The grass was overgrown,
And stubbornly fought
Against the clean sheet we layed
On it.
I made you paint,
And the floating haze in the air
Stung my eyes.
I knew something was wrong,
We all did.
We saw your emotions
Doing backflips
And pirouettes.
We saw your sleep
Running away from you,
We saw the music clouding up
Your thoughts
So they couldn't hurt you.
But none of us knew
How wrong it was.
I took two terra-cotta
Flower pots
In hand,
And declared it a lovely day.
You deemed it dismal.
I waltzed into the yard,
With bottles of bright paint,
And soft brushes.
I made you sit
In the oppressive sunshine,
With insects
Whizzing around our ears
To paint flower pots.
On a long dog walk at midnight,
You finally told me half of the truth.
That you were having problems.
The grass was still lively
And springy,
It was after the drought.
You dribbled paint
In pretty patterns,
And I tried to convince myself
This was good for you.
It was the small early hours
Of the morning,
Lit with fairy lights,
And your humidifier
Puffing in the corner,
That you told me the whole truth.
You had given yourself until September.
Printed an expiration date
On your forehead.
And I wish I could say
In that moment I knew what to do.
It's been a while now,
I'd like to think
I don't have to worry anymore,
But I do.
So in case I should,
I love you.
I love you,
And I promise to never make you
Sit in the sun
And paint again.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
the third mate last,
lashed to the helm,
a punishment, a lashing
for having
read and let
the taste of words unkempt,
hash my essence,
thus pelted,
excised, my flesh,
unto a wearied
death by a thousand cuts
my artistic force bleeds,
I am realistic,
there is no
superman savior,
there is only
life after death,
where dear god,
last wishing, it is a world of
silence perfected
I know I promised no more
on this shopworn, discounted topic,
but I read and I weep
my essence seeps, pores pouring,
tried the ancient cure of ignoring,
but anguished curiosity begs
for bliss
asking,
just try once more,
knowing that ignorance
can never be blissful
confounded, words indelible,
the poems tattooed trite,
with an unheard last sigh,
what makes them think
every stray dog of a thought
deserves sharing
tender each with word
with such selected caring,
arguing back and forth,
and always losing
and always winning
the argument over the
Final Selection,
the process holocausts me,
I am not a survivor anymore,
just an over killed victim
to tattered ribbons sliced,
no seamstress can resurrect what once was,
endlessly they celebrate their flesh's cutting,
they cannot know their words,
alpha beta me to where,
the ink is drained and flushed,
and withered fingers lose their moist urgent,
discomfited composure
and
all the words I know are a plague
upon my shotgun house,
I am bleeding, but that does not mean
my poetic permission lives,
it only means my blue blood
surrenders it oxygen upon contact
with an atmosphere of trite
and I swear to you it hurts to much to
write,
hurts more than breathing
do not write to me of your pain,
write instead with painstaking care
and let me read thy crafted composition
and say this,
*thus I am staked to you,
penetrated in ways ,
that each cut of thine,
ready welcomed
for it is sublime,
a human humidifier,
putting back the moisture lost
by tears shed over wastrel poems*
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Full Moon
What do I do with all this energy?
I watch you sleep and think about
-smashing your face in,
or kissing you,
or maybe just putting my yellow earplugs
up your nose
-for laughs-
You are so crazy! (What about me???)
I just woke you up to remind you
about the water in the humidifier-
and you actually filled it up!
You asked me not to write on you any more
and I giggled in reply
I wish that I were ******* or fighting!
Everything else seems so ridiculous!!!
So meaningless
There is a slight buzzing in my ears,
The tension of this night is deafening
Even the baby, still unborn, feels it
He is as restless as I
While his father snores and I draw
Small lines on his neck with my pen…
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
I watched a movie once that related Love to oxygen.
It was at that instance I realized something.
I’ve spent too many years inhaling and exhaling such a fragile and pure concept.
And for once I want to suffocate at the thought of a healthy heart.
I wanted to discontinue the second notion of my lungs.
Because breathing out never sounded so strenuous.
When I saw you, I couldn’t help but gather the atmosphere around me and hold it in.
My better half held it’s hand over my mouth.
But for once I didn’t panic.
The thought of your presence crept in and eased my pain.
At times I feel like I have reoccurring moments.
Like certain circumstances have been lined up for me and you’re my humidifier, aiding my existence.
A kiss.
My lips gather upon yours.
And it is at that time, I can resupply my body with life.
It is at that time, I always understand why he referenced oxygen when speaking about Love.
So when I grow older, I don’t want a breathing tube shoved down my throat.
I just want you there, holding my hand.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
You are steam, a romantic thing--
Silent, hot, always moving,
Ever-present where there is heat,
Life-giving substance and abundance,
Where there is tension and congestion.
But you are the kind of steam
That comes out of a humidifier
Your healing powers come from
A store-bought jug,
Worth less than a dollar.
Distilled--lacking in others’
Emotional impurities,
The little minerals that give the rest
Of us compassion and soul
Children try to play with you--
They engulf your furls in their mouths
Then open them and let you go, like dragons.
You linger in the air for winter.
I don’t know about her,
But I’m not sick anymore
Thank you for clearing this mucus
From my lungs.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
I never had a room.
Well, I had a room
But, I was allergic to dust.
I am allergic to dust.
So, early on
She took all the books
Off the cold off-white metal shelves
That clanked and groaned
Under their weight
Put the humidifier in
And let the velvety steam
Perspire on my peach painted walls.
I think they were peach.
Maybe another hue of pink.
Which I grew to hate
Because she slept in blue.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
Orange earplugs, pill-shaped, one pair:
for use when pretending the neighbours' furniture-dragging is comforting invariably fails.
White humidifier, cylindrical, spewing vapour:
twenty minutes per cycle. Each manual reset is a life lost and there is no Player Two.
Day curtains, thick and heavy, one set:
to evade the pincer of lunar Cyclops' glare and unblinking orange streetlights.
E5:E2: the projection clock spits on the wall, fresh red and upside down:
it's almost midnight. I shall feign death until the whirring in my head dies.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 11:13 AM UTC