"ladled" poems
This woman speaks in tongues
Foreign languages roll from her mouth
Like summer fog ladled over the rim
Of Candlestick Park
In the not-so-distant
Far far away of long long ago
This woman speaks in rotund sentences
Effulgent with vocabulary
That shimmers with the electrified joy
Of lights over Ghirardelli Square
In the not-so-darkness
Of the clammy and cabalistic night
This woman speaks with her hands
Impresciable, implacable, and inconsolable
As she tries to mold untranslatable words
From air that is as thin
As the promises she’d preferred
And purchased with the shards of her heart
This woman speaks in lyrics
Arpeggios of adjectives and alliteration
That tumble acrobatically with the intricacy
And grace
Of a hummingbird in spring
On the kiss of a blossom
Rich and fragrant and giving as
This woman speaking in tongues
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
"I want you all to put a paintbrush to that canvas and sign your signature."
eyes danced around the room too scared to land anywhere
what a beautiful, devastating masterpiece
The canvas filled with every shade of our pain
No one else would understand the hues of our language
The way the splatters aligned just right
Our messy beautiful pain
New age art therapy ********
I watched you all throw colours at the wall of white
Behind your protective sheet
And scream in voices I'd never heard
about, rage, about misery
Covered in every colour of the rainbow and tears and snot
and memories
Some broke down and cried
"WHY, WHY THE **** DID YOU HAVE TO DIE?!"
Reminded me of my brothers paint ball party
But without the clowns
without the laughter
Just a bunch of screaming, incomprehensible children
"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?"
why?
Some broke more than their share of things
Now look
look at that picture we painted
Isn't it beautiful
aren't the colours just right?
Bright orange,
Yellow
Doesn't it hurt your eyes
Now look,
black
blue
Like the bruises inside
you
Look at us,
If I could take a picture of the look in each one of your eyes
As you ladled fistfuls of paint
Of eggs
Vases
Broke things to mimic the sound of your own
Brokenness
Onto some chaotic point of oblivion
I would say
"Wait, ah, there it is, that's what pain looks like."
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
Soft night emerged, came walking across the water,
Laid itself down in sheets
Across the heaviness of air
And all about became its bleak color of darkness.
Sounds however refused to
Alter their hues with the coming of their unseen makers.
From afar
Waves broke against the shore
And that tender climb reached up
And patted me on the shoulder, and I could imagine
As it shrank back down to its beach
In gentle ladled golden flows, the image of that sound.
A spirit remarking in the deep exercised its body.
The earth played like an instrument,
Or senses broken in half
And in that break is reached a hand to take
Its feeling straight from sources,
Those wonderful vibrations who were changed
By steps who filled their path, until the dawn.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Last night I asked Mother Sky
to lay me down
under the stars.
She covered the long day
with her black/blue quilt
tucking away
my rapid heart.
Brushing the unkempt hair
from my eyes
she warmed me
with deep sea breaths
and showed me how much
she loved me.
Her finger drew
a shooting star
as she measured
herself in a whisper,
"From here, my dear,
.........................to there."
Mother offered me
a drink from her ladled cup.
I chose the big one
with both hands
consuming every drop
until my lips finished
with a satisfied "Aaaaaaahhh".
I handed her the twinkling chalice
which she hung again
by the North Star.
I resigned my head
to the grassy pillow
my eyes lost in retreat.
"Will you sing to me?"
I asked sightlessly.
From the corners of Endless
she coaxed
soft soothing melodies,
while the Sandman
strummed willow trees
to her song.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
It is said in time,
That beauty to the beholder is a sensation.
The most powerful statement of forgiveness to a human being is the ability to behold and practice creation.
Ice figurines can’t hold under heat,
Yet their demise creates life sustaining substances,
Like dangerous chemical concoctions,
Company never really felt completely perfect.
We kept masks on when we gathered,
It seemed like my friends could have always made it to Hollywood,
The way our lives were just mere performances.
Highlights of high times,
Quality, picture perfect film reels burned into cyberspace,
But the ladled space between our fingertips became foreign as the next new emotional overhaul was just fingertips away.
Obsessed over why perfection isn’t an issue yet imperfections are celebrated,
Yet not the ones you have.
What is desire if the object sought is someone else?
Elsewhere, the first half of the year is spent trying to remake the second half, pretty in pink,
Only when it didn’t rain.
So soulless, our bond became,
The hollowed Ravens became vultures,
Clearing the pathways to prepare for a feast,
Not caring whether death would actually take us,
But what would be broken would cause the death of our own ways,
Our own souls terrified,
Shocked to the security of a coffin.
Do we merely search for what is rightfully ours?
No,
For we are dream catchers,
Simply grasping for a reality that would be a shame to the creator,
Formed by the realtors,
Sell your self worth for a secular sense of selfishness,
Steal the dream,
And be complacent.
The worst part wasn’t when I lost you,
It was what became of my dreams when I lost myself too.
My first half is done.
I wish no longer to live the second half in misery through.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
.
O the trender souls who keep
Spewing their ladled ornaments,
Words even a dull, starving bird
Would not gobble, plastic pieces,
Rambles of thought, unthought,
Pretty sounding, shiny trinkets,
Merely nailed by some old book,
Or a dog eared dictionary, maybe,
Some pulpy article wherein hacks,
Dreamt with loss, sad aspirations,
These are the dug trailings of fools,
Lazy, writers who fancy themselves,
Fancying themselves, in a black mirror,
Merciful as imagination and delusion,
O how the neophyte sings without any
Voice, nor depth, nor taste, nor blood,
Conscious revels in unconsciousness,
O but lame awaits the vain, the shallow,
The self proclaimed, the peacock, but, their
Showtime is only something base, something
Not and ghost peculiar, something only a carny
Would know to mock, revile as he promotes.
How glittering are the newest word baubles,
Blathering speak to mask all faceless souls,
Twaddle, twitterings, revered by simpletons.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
I like watching you in the kitchen.
Your motions are swift,
from the stove to the food processor
to the sink to the dishwasher
it's one seamless flurry.
A graceful hustle.
Country music is playing in the background.
You don't know all the words,
but every once in a while
a lyric escapes your honeyed mouth.
I smile
because it's a line filled with weight.
A heavy pondering
with careful reflection.
I can see that in your smile.
As I sit here,
eyeing you with adoration,
you approach me
with a petite sample on a silver fork.
I do not hesitate
to open my mouth,
like a baby bird begging for a secondhand worm.
Just like everything you have ever given me,
it is marvelous.
It's of good quality and impeccable flavor,
ladled forth
from a generous heart.
I like it here in your domain.
My eyes will feast on this view
forever.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
A standardized suit.
A universal fit for
all those
who do not feel the nourishment of food.
A career path
cut
through the hem of childhood
and choked by a cheap thin
patterned tie.
The mothering
of a paranoid system;
“it’s not my fault,
just jump through the hoops.
I get paid to read you this book.
Lend me half your ear
and I will half teach you:
Think.
Don’t think.”
Spot the simile.
Dot the t and circle the i.
And I.
I am all in a room painted
with flyers.
They work like road signs,
luminescent with lasered ink
and ladled with pictures
of success.
You can.
You can’t.
You shall.
They hang
like smiling convicts on the wall.
A warning shot to remember
every time you catch yourself
staring into the sky.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Hieronymus Bosch, who was only four,
Had toddled right out of my life,
I didn’t know whether he’d gone on his own
Or left with the trouble and strife.
She’d rave and she’d threaten to fly the coop
As she said that my ways were strange,
But whether she’d bother to take him too
Would have meant a remarkable change.
‘Why did you pick such a horrible name,’
She’d say, as she ladled the stew,
‘You gave him the name of a painter insane,’
(As he baited the bears at the zoo).
‘How can he live a commonplace life
With a moniker he can’t spell?
You’ve sentenced your son to eternal strife
Like that panel, a painting of hell.’
Hieronymus, he didn’t care about this,
He wanted to picture his world,
He’d flop and he’d slop in the mud, in his bliss,
And paint, till his toes had curled.
I knew that he’d be a surrealist when
He played with his mash, and was cute,
He swished it around on his palette to look
Like a man with a nose like a flute.
‘That kid is so gruesome,’ the wife had exclaimed,
‘He’s set on a roadway to hell.’
He’d crayoned a picture of me and her sister
Entwined on her favourite bell.
‘He isn’t like others,’ I used to exclaim,
‘He sees what he sees inside out,
He doesn’t like others, like hair-splitting mothers,’
And that’s when she started to shout.
I’ve searched and I’ve searched for Heironymus Bosch,
I’m trying to follow his trail,
The long line of beetles he captured in treacle,
The dead dog that’s eating its tail.
I know that he’s not with the trouble and strife
For she went into hiding in Greece,
He should be called Chester, the lad’s such a jester,
I guess I’ll be calling the Police.
David Lewis Paget
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
i am the father of these words yet,
these mischievous children
run away in the loquacious dark
chasing lithe-clothed, supple-limbed
girls whirling up and about the prairie
of these versifications without home
in mind or remembering —
(the home of my mind wary of
the past and its old cobwebs,
or the slaughter of ordinariness
with a dull blade poised to cull,
these mindful creatures assassinating
diaphanous muses disrobing themselves,
serpents shedding their integuments.)
oh and when they return home sullied,
after a day's squalid scamper past
the muck, the twitch of atmosphere,
the horizon ladled with clouds
in white metamorphosis, i remove their
clothes and send them to the fences of sleep — impish dream-callers,
yes I am the father of these words
and they flourish, swelling up, learning
to harangue their own father, sending
him to borderless retreat.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
I inverted my cast iron pan while getting my cake batter ready
And ladled in globs of batter against mirror black
I stacked fruit into corners to get nice and crusty
And I'm burning inside to get fat.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:58 PM UTC
how each day comes to me
burdened with the sorrows
of yesterday
my hope for overnight calm
diminished
shattered
with the gaping dawn
how each day drags for me
ladled with added suffering
and worry
building to a crescendo of torment
deafening me
how each day ends for me
head pounding with explosive thoughts
my mind begging for sleep
and unconsciousness
weary with the expectation
of facing another day
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
Maybe I cry too much, love too much, and feel too much
I’m sorry if that makes you feel uncomfortable to talk to me
I can be too sensitive, I try, but I can never win
So sorry if my heart’s too big to fill the box you put me in
And I wish you could see all the love I have to give
Inside a brain that thinks so fast that it forgets that I am breathing…
And I know I shine the brightest when I haven’t got a clue
Of how whatever hell is wrong with me takes all the fun away from you
I know that I shine brighter when I cannot understand
How I can never fill the shoes you try to fit onto my hands
And I wish that you would take all the care I have to give
Inside someone who loves so much she forgets she should be eating…
Maybe I hurt too much, talk too much, and think too much
Perhaps that makes me less than worthy of the friendship that I need
I could call you up again, but maybe I’ll just let them in
The ones who treat me like I’m not a burden ladled onto them
The ones who hold me while I cry and think I deserve better
And ones who drive out to my house no matter what the weather
The day I let you go was when I knew that I was free
I knew I shined the brightest when I let you walk away from me
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
Warm and smooth
Orange mayple syrup
Sun rays ladled upon my back
Absorbing the goodwill of the sun
I lay on the concrete like a hot rock
All tension set aside
Fingers dip in the water
Where the lights bounce and play
Cool to the touch
This simulacrum of the sea
Smell the salt and get swept away
To another time, long ago past
I turn my gaze up to the sky
The big bright blue expansion
It draws me in.
I want to dive into it's unfolding depths.
I want this momentary bliss
To stay with me forever.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
The Perseus Cluster declination
650,000 light years; 54 billion degrees
Her day is ladled in breaths
Sawdust of stars encircling her feet
The sun in Minor A; a wonderful remark
(For manners lie undisturbed in the dark)
A need for a poem to define Celestry
Her heart is lost to gravity
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC