"mop" poems
I was just in the closet July 1988
Not a word was said; 'sept a couple of whispers and an obvious desire to ****
Mop buckets, the heat, and the stink of her *****
Petulant hands and harsh fingers as staggered breaths tell a tale;
knickers and pants half pulled down,
Hard truths pushing through,
I had to **** her from behind,
Very confined, quick, clumsy, ****** release.
We both staggered out; her mate was much older and waiting outside, bold as brass, she looks me up and down all tough and barks assertively "i'm next!" and **** I was back in the closet 1988
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
Cookies, Cookies which ones to make?
Cookies, Cookies which ones to bake?
Is it oatmeal for him? sugar for me?
Ooh! these jam ones look scrumptious (in the picture) you see?
Will it be bran for momma, or peanut butter for sis?
Oh, I could cook them all and someone's favorite still miss.....
I could wash, and I could dust & sweep and mop , till i'm dead,
but alas, if you watch, I'll be baking instead because I have cookies in my head.
Cookies, Cookies, which ones to make
Cookis, Cookies, which ones to bake?
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
I sit and try and be a lotus
after killing the third fly of the evening
with a pocket book of recipes and a
thirty centimetre ruler stolen
from bathroom **** measuring contests to our knees.
Young professionals tread these boards
and I watch, trying to paint them lotus.
I listen and learn like I was told to do
then clock watch, mop, cycle home to you;
I am still trying to be a lotus
even in wet shoes and no socks.
With less than five-hundred pounds to my various names,
an office-chair-cum-clothes-horse, eight USB charging ports
and a future that stretches to Sunday’s last reluctant second,
I am sitting, trying to be lotus figuring out the professional path
David Attenborough heard in his gentleman’s class: that son of a-
- I walked into an army recruitment vault with dreams of being Gulliver,
though was asked to leave out the cat flap cathedral door back into war
as they’d got their laugh and didn’t applaud.
Perhaps I should’ve been better at maths
where apparently a career can be predicted on a scatter graph,
and the pigeons of today were the pigeons of next year and the months that’ll follow the century after that.
I am still trying to figure out the hoo-ha of ************
and ring fingers and collar sizes and the inner circles
of hyenas when the winter solstice splits the seasons.
There is no reason for this lotus procrastination
when what’s there to live for but a crooked world
and one bandage left.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
"Whist," is what Mammy said,
As she whisked us off to bed.
Usually we'd go quietly.
But a gypsy woman sat at our table,
Reading tea leaves,
Pouring prophecies.
Guests were few, and she I knew
To be a special one.
She saw dark clouds in a cup.
My sisters, past the tender age,
Stayed up longer to hear her say,
"Tall dark men are on their way."
I pricked my ears from upstairs,
Tried to put both on the vent,
Both of them were forward bent.
Just then my father
Climbed the stairs;
I saw the dark mop of his hair,
He was tall,
He wasn't humming;
No one else foresaw his coming,
But I vanished off to bed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to ****
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
10.1k
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
this garden was not tended to
and when it was, it was done with bitter blisterless hands
the weeds are creeping out now and thickening stalks
and they move out
out out
goes any sense trust we grew in this garden.
and out
out out
goes my frothy yellow blood into the humid grounds of the garden
and you mop it up and glaze over my barkless parts
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the hose to feed me
was bent at angled corners
and the water shrieked its way through
to come out a subtle flaccid
drop by
drop by
drop
on my parched cracked tan sun slapped skins
and i was angry
that you never felt the need to untangle the hose
because you turned the faucet to full volume
so you assumed that was all the water you could give
and i needed
boo croons the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the garden is all sand colored and tired
and you don’t feel guilty
you looked at it every day
and squirted what you could on it
and picked whatever weeds you saw
but you never went beyond what looked pretty to visitors
and you let the roots rot across the summer
and now that the winter’s fallen in
there’s not enough water to keep the garden beating
and all the melted snow in the world won’t make up for it
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
I've come to the conclusion
That my life's a wreak
Poetry strewn all about
My house the biggest mess
So here I am in the middle of the den
In a pile of poetry on the floor
A desperate man with phone in hand
Since I can't seem to find the door
I call up a Psychic
I call up my Shrink
I call up the local Priest
To ask them what they think
They say there is no hope for me
Through the static on the phone
Right before they all hang up
I hear...boy you're too far gone
So I grab a hold my bootstraps
Pick my own self up
Determined to have this problem licked
With prayers and major luck
Starting in on this poetic clean
One thing that I found
I wrote on just about anything
That I had laying around
There was poetry on party napkins
On Chinese take out meals
Tiny poetry on tiny matchbooks
Even on banana peals
Poetry on the chandelier
Poetry on my cat Floss
Poetry on ***** dishes
I wrote with spaghetti sauce
Poetry on the mirrors
Smiling back at me
Poetry on Seinfeld
Across my T.V. screen
Poetry on the kitchen tile
That's never seen a mop
On the doors going in and out
And places I dare not look
I started cramming it all in boxes
Lining them up and down the halls
Soon had them in every room
3 feet deep and 8 feet tall
I made 15 trips to storage
The biggest one that I could find
Feeling now it's nice and safe
All packed tight, warm and dry
When it all was over
Feeling relief from that major chore
Set down in my den, took out my pen
And started writing more...
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
it's almost two in the morning.
i toss and turn,
roll around--
nothing.
sighing, i sit up,
and think to myself,
"This hasn't happened in a while."
my mind automatically goes back to that time,
when i was younger,
and our family went to the capital.
slept in some fancy hotel
with some fancy people
with their fancy clothes.
on the second night we stayed there,
i couldn't get a wink of sleep.
i don't know whether if it was because of exhaustion
or something else.
naturally,
the next morning was hell.
i was pissy and bored
as we waited for father in the lobby.
i couldn't take a nap in public because, well,
i had my pride, of course!
chewing a gum quite aggressively,
i observed my surroundings.
my gaze hopped from one person to another.
a royal from a country i haven't even heard of.
an important figure in politics.
a celebrity.
a kid.
white blonde hair?
i haven't seen hair of that shade.
it was quite unnatural here.
i whipped my head to the left and saw
two beautiful people.
the taller was around my age.
he had the same mop of hair as the kid i saw (the shorter).
the child, on the other hand,
was most probably no older than six.
they were both awesome.
the light glowed on their figures,
and it looked like they were godsend.
i haven't seen anything more beautiful.
and who knew that who knows how many years later,
i would find myself looking back on that vivid memory.
as if it had happened yesterday.
(i feel like i'm still stuck in that time.)
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
i want to do right
but its so hard to find
another boot party tonight
im still just fine
franky on the mop
billys on the floor
only from the top
i sit laughing and drinking
refusing to clean these boots
cleanliness is godliness
twisted and stunted roots
praying in godlessness
as they all line up at the ticket booth
take this knife
give the slow slice
through my jugular and wind pipe
stare
into the
sun
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
A Workplace Rendezvous
My eyes
Always found hers.
Mischief,
The dangling host.
She was one
Of my workplace peers.
If it went any further
I could be toast.
Those cinnamon eyes
Of hers.
Butterscotch candy
Peers back at me,
I feel so dandy
Shoot me some brandy.
I see the loneliness
In hers.
Her cleavage
Cuts to the chase.
Happenstance now in place.
Our eyes did dance a duet.
Her words are the coquette.
Mine is a cadet.
We grabbed a ruse.
A pail and mop with a muse.
When we reached
The men's restroom
The coast was clear.
The sun shining above,
Holding a frown.
Say hello to the clown.
We fast break the court,
I dribble up and down.
She passes back and forth,
I shoot for the town.
We score at the bell,
That breaks the spell.
Our lunch break
Rendezvous
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
With
better scotch
we toast.
Logan Robertson
10/6/2018
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
And she takes the book waiting on the shelf,
smelling of milk, toothpaste and goodnight kisses,
it's pages cracked, worn thin with birthday wishes,
wearing wrinkles wizened by the layers of fingerprints
that traced the silk of mama's voice on every word.
She turns to find him all tucked up in bed,
head cushioned by a mop of curly hair,
arms clutching tight a tattered teddy bear.
His sleepy eyes draw her to his side
and she leans in another once upon a time.
Her voice kisses the curve of every word,
calling to life a world she has to see,
moulding reality to what it ought to be;
a place with swings, slides and just five minutes more ,
sighs breathed to birth a need held deep inside.
A land where all the games are fair,
with candy houses but no cavities in sight,
where all evil is banished by the light.
The winds of time are soothed and still
listening to the clicks of a clock that never stops ticking.
Her child's eyes flutter to dance in dreams of his own
and the bedtime lies shatter behind her eyes.
It's not her son longing for a land where no one dies.
Children are borne of pixie dust and shooting stars
to a world of wonder built for each alone .
Once upon a time is a prayer whispered by mama's at night
to restrain the hurts and horrors of the earth
with the soul wrenching fear she's felt since she gave birth.
See she has to believe in forever and a day
for her love for her son is growing all the while.
She has to believe in love and life and laughter.
She has to hold close the hope of
happily
ever
after.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
Don't you know
My mop and glow
Is brighter than
A star over Mazatlán?
I'd be more than spittin'
While you're just there sittin'
This ain't just a game
Though it be the same
When they say don't hate
The player when you're just at the gate,
I fill all the stadium seats
And provide all the player's cleats,
Yeah, you get my drift
Like after hockey left to sift
For teeth and glory
Only half the story,
Through blood and ice
I don't just play and act nice,
I am red riding hood's wolf
Watch out or you'll get a hoof
On your forehead wear it proud
The only crown you'll wear in the crowd...
APAD13 015 - © okpoet
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
National treasury, the room
Government, the broom
Its citizenry the mop.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
*she returns from her classes,
ballet, yoga, core something and Zumba for flavoring,
her hair, an upward, toe pointing cannon of mop mess,
her face glowing flushed,
one look and I know she is both,
morphing high,
wipeout exhausted
a little ritual she performs somewhere between
"it was great and she (the instructor) killed us,"
auto sub conscious,
she looks herself over,
twisting elegantly like the
Argentine tango dancer she is,
in the mirrored closet doors
raising both arms to see (show off)
the sums of her endeavors,
the exoskeletal musculature
she has earned,
a life long effort,
like a prize fighter as he
macho enters the ring,
an alpha male gesture
if ever there was one,
made over to say,
hey boy, look at me!
*and the boy looks her over,
always thinking, but never revealing,
that it is her muscles of mindfulness and mercy,
that take his breath away, the ones that are worked out daily,
the ones that surround and work the heart beating,
the lung inhaler of humans in need,
exhaling the richest
oxygen for others to breathe
and the boy does his service,
providing a "wow" or "very impressive,"
only you and he know his real thinking,
and his muscle memories secret,
you to keep, just between us,
and his secret identity, only love poetry...*
8:52pm 7/20/17
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
Wake up
Get my son ready for school
Say goodbye to my husband
Walk my son to the bus stop
Walk home
Sweep. Mop. Scrub.
Go out and get my tire pressure checked
Stop by the post office
Go home
Walk to the bus stop
Walk home with my son
Schedule next PTA meeting
Cook dinner
Husband returns home
Eat dinner
Put son to bed
I kiss my husband
We are too tired to get intimate
We fall asleep next to one another
Both proudly grinning
We've done it
We've destroyed the sanctity of marriage
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
So I'm sure you wanna know how I crafted this bizarre flow so I'll sit you down and tutor you let's go
step 1 draw off of everything under the sun treat your words carefully like a loaded gun step 2 now that you know what your words can do put them into verse leave others in the back of a lyrical hearse
step 3 Is the most important to me personally I walked into an asylum to search for a straitjacket if you don't have punch lines you definitely can't dot hack code or slash it
step 4 is getting your foot into the door caught with the drum beat drops leave your audience sweating like a wet mop
well that's all the steps I'll add some more usually involving clever metaphors now then you know the score
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Wake up
Wash up
Cook
Clean up
Attend class
Scribble notes
Speak up
And eat up
Organize
Sweep
And mop
Repeat as needed
Oh, monotony
You have found me
With your best friend,
Exhaustion
You killed my will to live
Imagination, all gone
Muscle memory keeps me going
Oxygen gives my heart a beat
I may as well be dead
My mind shuts off
The noises all gone
And good ol' monotony comes up to play.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
You can’t deny what is justified
Neither the wrists that were crucified
And at the peak of His sovereign grace
And the crown that pierced the top of His face
And we destroyed in our eyes a chunk of mud
And yet; He saved the souls of Adams blood
He forgave our ignorance and tall some grew
And many today through Him become new
We were granted a gift you see
One so unnatural it shouldn’t be
We know it so well it’s like we don’t care
But truth is you look at what else He’ll spare
You glance at the list and we’re bottom to top
And everything else is washed with a mop
So may it never be! As Paul would say
To belittle such a privileged way
I can’t save you from your delay
But sovereign is the Lord through Him you may
The invitation is written in us now
And it’s your choice where you’ll be when our knees will bow
Maybe I’m saying this a little too lightly
Understand when you’re given a rope, you should hold on tightly
For crying out loud do you still not comprehend
That others given a soul aren’t lent a hand
as a being in God’s creation alone
and made to accept a debtless loan
Through a process foreign to things known
And here we lie guilty and not blown
In all evil is God given wrath
No escape from a hopeless death
So as not so mind-opening as I wanted to be
Think to yourself about this significance and see
What we live in this life is passionately hated and despised
But yet it’s still your choice to either be loved or denied
For our helpless minds were those wrists crucified
You can’t deny what is justified
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
So what?
If I'm not 'so hot'
Why do you care
If I never change my hair?
Okay maybe my videos won't go viral
But the aim is to make at least one person smile
Honestly, I shouldn't worry
About being ignored
Or being 'totally!' unpopular..
It's gonna make a great story someday.
.. The day I become a somebody.
SO, before you trade your glasses in for a pair of contacts,
Before you chop your mop, and throw on the make up, before you chug down that *****
Which makes you talk crazy when you snooze,
Ask yourself; 'What do I have to lose?'
.... The rep you don't have,
Or the pride that you do.
Popularity is down to you.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Lights change from
RED BLUE YELLOW to WHITE.
Bass drums change the pace of our heart beats.
People are surrounding us like one whole mass, they are all the background, the way they dance sets the tone.
But through all this chaos I'm NOT alone.
I see a beautiful angel.
Her eyes like diamonds.
Her hair like roses.
Her smile like moonlight.
She calls my name through the crowd.
I only see her
& she only sees me.
I make way towards her, struggling through the dancing bodies.
When we meet, she takes hold of my hand.
Her skin is chilly.
Then our hands start melting like ice in someone's fist.
& suddenly were not at the Disco Party anymore.
Were indulged in light pink liquid which tastes so sweet.
Our feet are wrapped in white satin.
Our hands have become one.
& my heart is budding rapidly, it's a garden.
MY heart.
She is MY angel.
Finally I wake up to my alarm, time for work!
As I mop the bathroom floors & restock the toilet paper I think about the little angel who visited me in MY dreams & made life seem so wonderful.
We bonded for life in what felt like twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of my like that changed how I felt about the world.
Ever since that day I moped with a smile & a twinkle in my eye.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
bun?
Mohawk?
slicked back?
side parting?
centre parting?
greased?
permed?
straightened?
skin head?
bald head?
spiky?
A comb over?
pony tail?
pig tails?
curly?
frizzy?
dyed?
mop top?
French crop?
blue rinse?
purple rinse?
step?
undercut?
shaggy?
dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
Chirping crickets...
As a little girl....
I remember hearing this sound
In our living room
I ask my mom
Because mom knew everything
What is that?
She called it a cricket
mom thought crickets chirping
Was music to her ears
I remember her saying
Listen! Listen!
It's singing to us
And she was smiling
I never saw the cricket
Just heard it chirping...
BUT
One day as mom moved our davenport
Away from the wall
To dust the mop boards
She found that this chirping cricket
Was eating away at our davenport....
Now that's what I call
"Singing for your supper"
If only we had GOOGLE back then.
By Judy
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
Have you ever felt that your life is wrong?
Like you're suppose to be somewhere else?
Like while you're mopping the floor of your lowly dishwasher job your vision blurs and the world around you convulses turning the mop into a spear swirling the sea of bubbles into blood and the far off voice of your boss mutates into the sound of your fellow warrior?
Or maybe when you walk into rain and the soft sound of the droplets on your skin turn into the rhythmic music of things against armor.
And as you look to make sit you're not going crazy the roar of an engine turns into the bellowing of dragons, horses and more.
These flashbacks transport you to another time where the world is mystic,
The pavement transmutates into dirt as the air around swirls into sudden shrills of strengthening speeches spurring you soulfully into skillful battle.
And as you speed forward leading the charge
of your battalion of skilled men a thousand large,
The flashback stops and you're in your time,
No armor on you skin..
Or lives on the line..
But your heart is still racing,
And you remember their names,
Of the boys you were leading,
On to glory and fame,
So was it a dream?
Or a memory from the past?
Or maybe it was from your life last.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Blame it all on me
If your blind, I'm the reason you can't see
If you got a STD, I'm the reason it hurts to ***
If you're losing, I'm the reason you're not in the lead
Blame it all on me
I'm the fault you lost your job
I'm the fault you got robbed
I'm the fault your job is to mop
Getting paid minimum wage
Still by yourself, at your age
I guess I'm the source of all your rage
Blame it all on me
'Cause I'll just sit here and take it
I don't give a **** no need to fake it
And if I'm the reason you didn't make it
Blame it all on me
Even if I'm half way cross the world
It's still my fault
That you're broken and missing a bolt
Or that you're lovely relationship came to a holt
Blame it all on me
But while I'm steady being the blame
I stare at your life, head down in shame
'Cause while you're blaming me for losing the game
I take responsibility for what I do
If I **** up, I'll be the last one to blame you
By Vladislav Vagner
www.poemjunction.net
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it
Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice
Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel
Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same
Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you
Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?
Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.
Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either
Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?
Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something
Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something
Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC