"inflatables" poems - Hello Poetry

My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms- My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting- Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel- To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades- To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon- Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom- Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind- Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight- Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-

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Nov 20, 2014

Nov 20, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC

dp-younginger

Hindsight

My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms- My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting- Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel- To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades- To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon- Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom- Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind- Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight- Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-

9

knitted on a dodgy bobble hat or a favourite chunky jumper from scandanavia, or yorkshire untasteful but definitely practical.. smelly and friendly like a wet dog pliable like warm playdoh... patulioi oil will always remind me of you... 'a hippy place in my heart...' like a beachnut, no, a beach hut shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society, flip flop corner... 19:10 some random hermit crab making his escape from the dripping bundle of just found fishing net down through the crack in the floor... into the sand and back to the sea. the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses. suncracked and faded pieces of 70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner between the scraps of rope and the deflated inflatables and the bottlecap damian hurst next to sea purse corner, biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks who escaped from the pacific gyre... panning around, the smartphone registers, the garish tatty windbreak and the 90's ghettoblaster which still has some juice left from those batteries we bought at the gift shop... last year... for our imaginary beach hut.... in the outer hebrides...? you take the camping gaz from the cupboard and put the kettle on... the beach is desert island white the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard the wind tugging relentless through our hair. but the pub is warm and friendly where grizzled fishermen philosophise hardily. by the fire. between warming shots of smokey single malt.

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Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC

stuart-harris

all right love

knitted on a dodgy bobble hat or a favourite chunky jumper from scandanavia, or yorkshire untasteful but definitely practical.. smelly and friendly like a wet dog pliable like warm playdoh... patulioi oil will always remind me of you... 'a hippy place in my heart...' like a beachnut, no, a beach hut shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society, flip flop corner... 19:10 some random hermit crab making his escape from the dripping bundle of just found fishing net down through the crack in the floor... into the sand and back to the sea. the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses. suncracked and faded pieces of 70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner between the scraps of rope and the deflated inflatables and the bottlecap damian hurst next to sea purse corner, biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks who escaped from the pacific gyre... panning around, the smartphone registers, the garish tatty windbreak and the 90's ghettoblaster which still has some juice left from those batteries we bought at the gift shop... last year... for our imaginary beach hut.... in the outer hebrides...? you take the camping gaz from the cupboard and put the kettle on... the beach is desert island white the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard the wind tugging relentless through our hair. but the pub is warm and friendly where grizzled fishermen philosophise hardily. by the fire. between warming shots of smokey single malt.

47

Mid October takes its end of season's leap into the solitude of post-tourism autumn. The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate the reassembly of local solidarity. Tat and trim tucked into hibernation, chalkboards erased, scant takings totaled, inflatables deflated. Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's 'Correio de Manha' Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle. Sunshades collapse in deep south style, redundant loungers relax supine. Kids slope back to school - a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt dawdles through warming scents of post-salad indulgence, sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada', garlic, and aromatic oregano pot-grown in a back plot, littered with discarded placards and tired bikes. Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines, idle hands and minds with new time to fill mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie. Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet squatting to gossip under a white wash slung and pegged, stick-sure against thin bleached facades. Under Planes, old comrades congregate shuffling at a make-shift table, tired eyes set on cards, playing for cents under a limited sky once defined by Salazar. Car parks thin. Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds. copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

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Oct 11, 2011

Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC

caroline-grace

Closing time.

Mid October takes its end of season's leap into the solitude of post-tourism autumn. The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate the reassembly of local solidarity. Tat and trim tucked into hibernation, chalkboards erased, scant takings totaled, inflatables deflated. Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's 'Correio de Manha' Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle. Sunshades collapse in deep south style, redundant loungers relax supine. Kids slope back to school - a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt dawdles through warming scents of post-salad indulgence, sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada', garlic, and aromatic oregano pot-grown in a back plot, littered with discarded placards and tired bikes. Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines, idle hands and minds with new time to fill mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie. Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet squatting to gossip under a white wash slung and pegged, stick-sure against thin bleached facades. Under Planes, old comrades congregate shuffling at a make-shift table, tired eyes set on cards, playing for cents under a limited sky once defined by Salazar. Car parks thin. Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds. copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

40

With dangling shrubs for hair Pivoting like a vulture gleaming smiles You skunk, Tainting my heart with sweet nuthings, Blowing my fears into teary inflatables. It didn't grow, Because it had to burst. It burst again And blend into muck. I moan the past. Those goggles I crave Your Soda Glasses I raved So I can Swim again In the murky depths of our chaotic evil past.

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Dec 2, 2018

Dec 2, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC

ceida-uilyc

Chaotic evil

With dangling shrubs for hair Pivoting like a vulture gleaming smiles You skunk, Tainting my heart with sweet nuthings, Blowing my fears into teary inflatables. It didn't grow, Because it had to burst. It burst again And blend into muck. I moan the past. Those goggles I crave Your Soda Glasses I raved So I can Swim again In the murky depths of our chaotic evil past.

21

Allow me to remind you, that the sunrises are always the most beautiful when you are awake to see them. Take value in those bewitching fabrics of clutter, you wrap your walls with. For you are a skeleton; empty and translucent. There are no diamonds in your eyes no sparks of fire when you laugh because you are hollow bones, marrow ****** dry. Oh how my eyes deceived me when we first met. I think it was all of those inflatables you bought me, so I would also rest on your surface.

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Jun 29, 2014

Jun 29, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC

caroline-k

Puddle

Allow me to remind you, that the sunrises are always the most beautiful when you are awake to see them. Take value in those bewitching fabrics of clutter, you wrap your walls with. For you are a skeleton; empty and translucent. There are no diamonds in your eyes no sparks of fire when you laugh because you are hollow bones, marrow ****** dry. Oh how my eyes deceived me when we first met. I think it was all of those inflatables you bought me, so I would also rest on your surface.

19

I want to write a Christmas poem, But the muse ain't in the mood; I look outside, it seems like Spring. I really think I'm ******* There's not a flake of snow out there, The sun shines in the blue; I believe the squirrels are copulating. I really think I'm ******* Our geese stayed North again this year, Our fauna's still in view; It's hard to spot the cardinals; I really think I'm ******* There's lights strung round houses, With inflatables on the lawns; They're out of place, Look crude and rude; I really think I'm ******* I'm not hearing silver bells From sleighs running over snow; It's a wonder we call this winter, In Ontariario. But... the tree is up, The gifts well-wrapped With Love and Best Wishes too; So, in lieu of surely being ******* This verse will have to do.

0

Dec 23, 2023

Dec 23, 2023 at 12:11 PM UTC

francie-lynch

This Time of Year

I want to write a Christmas poem, But the muse ain't in the mood; I look outside, it seems like Spring. I really think I'm ******* There's not a flake of snow out there, The sun shines in the blue; I believe the squirrels are copulating. I really think I'm ******* Our geese stayed North again this year, Our fauna's still in view; It's hard to spot the cardinals; I really think I'm ******* There's lights strung round houses, With inflatables on the lawns; They're out of place, Look crude and rude; I really think I'm ******* I'm not hearing silver bells From sleighs running over snow; It's a wonder we call this winter, In Ontariario. But... the tree is up, The gifts well-wrapped With Love and Best Wishes too; So, in lieu of surely being ******* This verse will have to do.

26

Metal strewn about... Fires of jet fuel reek the air... Intermittent A shoe Seat 12A Tray table Heat from fuel pit Raging Zombies walking about Dazed Survivors Smeared with black Seats 17C & 24B Still strapped in Just torsos & A tie Fuselage Upside down Body part unidentifiable Papers Came down in cornfield Scorched earth Yellow inflatables strewn Crumpled Caved in Inferno Sunlight peeking thru... 5,000 pieces How could anybody survive this?

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Apr 17, 2018

Apr 17, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC

EricKazmin_77

Aftermath: Seconds After a Plane Crashes...

Metal strewn about... Fires of jet fuel reek the air... Intermittent A shoe Seat 12A Tray table Heat from fuel pit Raging Zombies walking about Dazed Survivors Smeared with black Seats 17C & 24B Still strapped in Just torsos & A tie Fuselage Upside down Body part unidentifiable Papers Came down in cornfield Scorched earth Yellow inflatables strewn Crumpled Caved in Inferno Sunlight peeking thru... 5,000 pieces How could anybody survive this?

30