"mopped" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
I absorbed,
Blotted misery,
Lapped with eyes,
Soaked-up transgressions,
Mopped-up history,
Was steeped in trials,
Ingested triumphs,
And truly assimilated.
But the ground is saturated,
My prints fill
With the brine
Squeezed out.
I am the salt on the earth,
Parched and cracked.
You preferred candyfloss;
I dripped the last drop.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
Here the Anopheles Mosquito lay
Her timed seeds programmed to promote her Brood
So when I saw my Water-Cup in place
It startled me that Tension filled with Blood
But why should you be mopped in such disgrace
When the Blood you saw was all but your own?
Had it been your fault when you should save face
That your Life's Assignment Cover was blown?
This whole Area's disgusting. If you could
Try a Lamb's Digest in still water's drink
He drinks barely folly; And if you would
Allow my Shepherd to point your Destine.
Yet this same Insect bit the Shepherd's arm
Struck her with his Cane but flew without harm.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Made an ocean before a drop
Of water dried-up before it's mopped
A shoot before the backdrop
creative feeling before she gulped
Beauty before the beholder
or let say before he behold her
Grown before she could be older
Timid before, She is bolder
Loved, before realizing they are ****
Yet to get the love-in, but he has come
He's here, she will yet describe him as gun
Only shoots around, like he's as* god
Now, she wished what was dim was clear
Like courage coming before the fears
She hoped this affair could be fair
Like seeing the future before it appears
-Pastorlee
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 8:25 PM UTC
it's woman power here
in the clans of the spotted hyenas -
the women are bigger and the males fear;
fathers are kind to daughters
so at least the daughters will be nice to them
so women really just give orders
and the male hyenas obey
with mirth and laughter
Did you take the garbage out?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Did you put the toilet seat cover down?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Have you mopped the floor?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Is dinner ready on the ground?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
I painted the fence,
washed the car,
mowed the lawn,
what else is there to do?
you told me to
clean the windows,
take out the trash,
walk the dog,
feed the cat
and I did that as well
what else do you need?
I picked up the groceries,
mopped the floors,
clean the toilets,
NO
I'm done
finished
I WON'T DO ANYMORE
all these chores are not worth 5 bucks!
Stop with this terrible labor.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 9:08 AM UTC
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
The days were unending as were the nights,
She waited and waited and waited,
But there seemed no hope in sight
Her tears flooded the room
while her torn clothes mopped the floor
She was loosing the last flicker of hope
She was ready to be the Angel of darkness
Nothing to loose and a name to gain
She could finally own something
The thought of tormenting her own soul
Made her smile
She felt alive for the first time
© cynthia
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 6:38 AM UTC
She walks on duty, through the night
Of coughing calls and sleepless sighs
And in the dim and pallid light
She stalks the ward with drooping eyes;
Thus patients rest within her sight
Which keeps them safe from their demise
One patient more, one break the less,
As frantic hands prepare the space
Which someone left in such a mess
So now she works at twice the pace
Whilst hiding signs of inner stress
With grimaced smile upon her face
And on that bed, and in the throe,
A deathly pale old patient went;
She held his hand and mopped his brow
His weary angel, heaven sent;
His vital signs began to grow
As she collapsed, her goodness spent.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
You waved the tool in my face
Causing a switch to go off in my brain
My thoughts distorted
My body springing to action
Trying to make you stop
What you had already done
The new raised lines on your upper arm
Caused by simple office supplies
Wouldn't have happened
If I hadn't left you for just a second
For the moment my back was turned
You were half past gone and a mile away from better
Both of are breathless
The shiny twisted piece of metal
Somewhere on the floor
Sitting across from each other
Your shoulders shook against mine
My tears burned into your shirt
And were mopped up with your brown hair
I spoke through choked sobs
As hurt memories flashed through my brain
Like the trailers of movies
Showing only a quick remembrance
Of my past
That leaked into your present
But you feel as though your present is not a gift
For you're falling down the rabbit hole
Not to Wonderland
But to the land of pills and hospital beds
Where it is not wonderful in any shape or form
Your scars can still heal
If you stopped retracing the red lines you've made
And realized
You are something
I care about you
And so do others
So if you won't try for yourself
Try for them
Try for me
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Your room smelled of drink, and sick mopped up last night; the sun was coming in more strongly, it was nearly twelve I think.
We both lay there, saying nothing and thinking nothing and the sheet was crumpled and ***** beneath us, the duvet on the floor, far away
The room was a mess, and it stayed that way until six-thirty when you asked me what I wanted to eat (still thoroughly hungover)
We ate cereal.
The next day was Sunday, and it went very much the same. The same happy daze.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
**** you stupid boy
For making me queasy and shy
I've got butterflies in my tummy
And stars in my eyes
**** you stupid boy
I've got this stupid grin
I cant wipe off my stupid face
And now I've got goosebumps on my skin
My head is up in the clouds
And my heart has bounded to space
Today I put on my t-shirt in reverse
And set my pancakes ablaze
Today I walked into a wall
From giggling at my phone
I got hit by a bus
Instead of walking straight home
When the bus hit me
I was still smiling and did not move my feet
Now I have to explain to my terrified parents
How I broke all my teeth
The puzzled doctor was astonished
He said I’m sorry there’s no prescription I can give
That can cure your chronic state of love-sickness
And hopefully let you live
**** you stupid boy
You’ve got me on a thrill
My hearts on a roller coaster ride
And quickly going downhill
**** you stupid boy
you make my face go red
when I read your stupid messages
when im supposed to be in bed
**** you stupid boy
You've got me in complete reverse
I mopped the dog and walked the mop
Please break this silly curse
The other day I was walking
and suddenly the lights went low
then I realized I had walked into an open sewer
that was left unclosed on the floor
I’m wrapped around your finger
And there's not a single trace
Of a sense of focus
On my absent minded lovesick face
**** you stupid boy
You’ll be the death of me
Next time the bus won’t break my teeth
I’ll just be history.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.
1.8k
Fix me a dish of your lie delicacy
Pretty please
With a cherry on top
And chocolate syrup aphrodisiac mind body control
Oh yummy, so delicious
May I also ask for a glass of fluoride water to compliment
Your plague cooked to perfection
Fake and suspiciously over-sweetened
Your contamination is a serious thing
Somebody call the health department
Because women and children are crying
Their stomachs are being filled with artificial hope as they
Throw it all back up onto the just-mopped linoleum floor
Check, please.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 1:34 AM UTC
Wake up to a pulsing morning.
Sooner than you know,
circles back to ******* Monday.
Empty batteries.
Empty call log.
Empty stomach,
and ash-mouthed, empty-hearted anger
leaves its streaks on the walls
of the insides of the skull--
it's a kitchen, that mind you got:
it's covered and crusted--well used I suppose--
but smells funny, needs dusted
and swept
and mopped
and wiped down
and shined up. Dress down
the absentees in your life--I'm sure you know how--
'til it circles back 'round--
to breakfast,
to Monday,
to you.
In your bed.
Fight the throb in your head and push back
on the sheets that still rush up to claim you--
slack jawed with maimed thoughts--though it's
late in the day.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
a piece of you, in a different form.
a piece left over, from the storm.
in my existance,
came all the resistance.
shortly after, the roof caved in.
& with an end, we watched it begin.
daddy left, you stepped up.
an empty glass, you filled the cup.
little did we know, it had a leak.
it's dripping slowly, as we speak.
over bumps we built bridges, rocky roads we held hands.
next to me, by my side...you'd always stand.
then, my hero ****** up.
he spilt the cup.
but he wasn't to blame,
no guiltiness, no shame.
you mopped the floor,
and again..you poured.
the cup freshly filled...
until the next spill.
the crack grew longer,
our bond grew stronger.
but little by little,
it grew too brittle.
his pillows were fluffed.
mine came unstuffed.
his blankets were warm.
mine came torn.
his bed was made.
but, you see i was afraid.
he didn't come home.
my secret is left : unknown.
i hit a blindspot in your rearview mirror.
i tried to hit the wipers so you'd see clearer.
& i tried with all my might.
to get into your sight.
but he was standing there, in the headlights.
& you...flicked on your brights.
there, i stopped, i tumbled...i fell.
no mean to get up, no energy to compell.
so now, i'll try and help you understand,
why i only hold plastic cups in my hand.
i was tired of competing with the one who broke the cup.
and watching, everytime, as you filled it up.
i was tired of running, when he got to walk.
i was tired of staying silent, when he got to talk.
i didn't know you had to fail, in order to win.
i didn't know you had to say goodbye, in order to begin.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
we held hands through
the halls of a concrete
elementary school;
the new shoes
our moms bought
us at the "back to
school" sales at the end
of a short summer, clanked
and screeched and
skited across the freshly
mopped floors
we laughed at recess and played
too much dress up
my best friend,
he hung from monkey bars
and smiled at the ground
and I still remember the first
time he asked to play
hide and seek
with a glaring look in his
big blue eyes
we shared head phones
in squishy army green
seats on a warm yellow bus
on the way to middle school,
and rested our
heads on each other's
shoulders at lunch,
laughing hard about
the summer,
complaining about the heat
my best friend,
he hung upside down
at the edge of my bed after
class was finally over
and he said "I think I
liked that other place
a little better"
we passed bottles
around basements
and blew kisses in gym class
we sped down noble rd
in our brand new
used cars on the way
to high school
screaming songs about everyone
we'd lost and all the ****
we wished we hadn't found
my best friend,
he hung old pictures
in his locker and he watched
the days as he fell behind them
we graduated
with slumped shoulders
and shadows under our eyes,
piercing smiles
& enough memories
to last a lifetime
we went off to college
and got ****** noses
from blowing lines
and telling lies
my best friend
he hung from
an extension cord
in the bedroom closet
of his ninth story
apartment
I still remember the first
time he asked to play
hide and seek
with a glaring look in his
big blue eyes
looks like we can
all use to be found
this time around
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
The place where the atmosphere consists of main outbreaks,
Whether the dishes weren't done or the floors weren't mopped correctly,
Something so small can effect the gross unification of "family".
Feeling like you can't necessarily express yourself,
Leaves you to feel drowned out by the many emotions that flood your mind at the worst of times,
It allows your feelings to grow more and more profoundly erratic; anxious.
Allow me to go into full elaboration as to how I constantly maintain my well-respected position of a so called "good person" or complain about the many people who are just as careless as the majority of people nowadays who simply do not ask how I've been.
I've let days slip by,
Suddenly, I feel no difference in what occurred yesterday or really, no contrast in the feelings I'll most likely encounter tomorrow.
At home, mass mental destructions happens,
It's where I get pulled into a place where I'm just trapped in my own self, similar to the way I feel in school.
I don't know, it could possibly be causing my continuous feelings of nervousness whenever I'm surrounded by people,
Or it could merely be the fact of which, I haven't yet chosen a path or seen quite a way to go through and feel a protective environment around me.
These winter days are gradually approaching,
It's only a matter of time until my mind goes away like the sun at night,
These seconds, minutes, hours can patrol for what feels like perennial timings, but anticipation is what's really foreshadowing my shallow whole of a "home".
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
perhaps I was twenty-six
she looked me over and soon enough
the walk to her place was zip, zap, zoop;
meaning, although the barman called
me over to tell me she had recently stabbed
or had tried to stab a bartender from
down the street,
my only concern was another mandrax, a
joint of kashmir hashish with thick ***** streaks
and, most certainly, a new escape; a new woman
the floor (a penthouse apartment, mind you):
much water from an overflowing sink...then, there's
the layer of dust on the dishes of the dish rack...and, not
to forget, the four or five
frightening knives, all very reachable
then, she introduces me to her first
jumping up and down episode--hollering,
"you're my father! I must **** you!"
how I spent two or was it three days with
her dumbfounds me these days...the fool, me,
I remember, first turned off the water
and mopped dry the floor...the miracle of
how my hand awoke and grabbed her wrist,
with the blade's tip an inch from my heart,
will have to wait another session with Harmony
--that She may reach into my mind and
pull out a more clear version of the epilogue
of this is-it-a-poem which I've written
in numerous other versions over the years
~~
..(C)2011/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching into the poet's heart
~~
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
as the moisture above us incites rampage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the gods stamp their feet while the godesses pout;
eternal beings acting young for their age.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud.
With tents full of water and glasses full of stout,
my overdue almanac cries out to the mage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the drizzle it dropped but the encore soaked the crowd
the mud grew new flowers as hands mopped the stage.
I've never heard a downpour cheer so loud.
Drenched to the bone and wanderin' about
our level of wetness cannot be guaged,
droppin bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
No refuge for masses sprawled under the spout;
bad acid, good music, free love makes us stay.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
droppin' bombs from the celestial once neutral clouds.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
Autumn drives her wind-horse to the gates of change.
She heaves fresh faced in shadows of a sheltering wall.
Eager to test the lie, so to speak, she sighs-
'Is it time yet, is it time?'
She observes a world half asleep, half dead.
'O dessicate Summer, O thirsty lady,
you have sapped all strength,
mopped the life-blood, leached all colour,
turned blushing petals to withered cusps,
you have turned this world to crumbling dust.'
Cat-like she steals, then with a gust....leaps!
whipping a dry pool of terrified leaves into a freshening frenzy.
'I'm here!' she cries 'It's my time.
Dance your full-blown pirouette!'
She turns to a world where neglected grapevines droop.
In the garden of ripening fruit, she plucks bruised from new;
mouldering black fruit that hangs in the crooked elbow of a thirsty tree.
Saddened, her tears fall on leaf-dead ground.
Slow tears, tears to tease dormant seeds from cracked hard-packed ground.
But listen to that sound.....
count the minims spilling on the quavering split terrain!
Net the hour, capture the perfume of moist grass where there is yet no greenness,
where the fat toad leans towards a blackening sky.
We are but children journeying from one season to the next
'Are we there yet? Are we nearly there?'
And when the storm comes we will know to light our way
into the garden of ripening fruit.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 12:09 PM UTC
I stand still, quiet, as I
allow the rain to envelop me.
barefoot, I begin to sense
mud and water squish between
my naked toes,
my feet become an earthly color
As they are taken over by
this soft wet earth.
I’m taken back to
memories of childhood days,
where my young feet, covered
in mud after a day of playing
mom sending out her warning
we had better not track
mud on her freshly mopped floors.
But I have grown, matured
since then, no longer
am I allowed to have such fun.
I must act like the adult I am.
I must worry about adult things.
The bills, the work around the house
that needs to be done.
There is no fun allowed
when you become “grown up”
But no matter, here I stand
in this rain, in this mud
like in the days of my youth
that has long since passed,
or so I thought.
For today I will stand and run
and squish in the mud
like the child I feel I am still.
Of course tomorrow says
there is a new doorknob
that needs to be put
on the bathroom door.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
You think you know love when you feel your stomach filled with butterflies.
You think nothing is the same once you feel them fly.
But one day you'll know love.
Although those butterflies will die.
They'll be replaced with little kicks
That turn into a freshly mopped floor covered in tiny muddy footprints.
True love is slow to anger.
And it's crazy how your little one is part you and part someone once a stranger.
With whom you now share a heart.
That lives outside your body,
adorable and smart.
Now imagine, another little one your lover brought to you. Part him and part stranger but the Stanger isn't you.
Imagine, if you can,
You love them both the same.
Such perfect little boys
They will bring you many joys.
But also much pain.
Sometimes it feels like a push and a shove.
But I promise you one day,
you will know love.
It will not sound like the "I love you"
That your mother used to say.
Or any of the sweet lies from before she gave you away.
Or the love HE tried to show you when he snuck into your little bed.
It won't feel like any
untruth that he put into your head.
You won't make your parents mistakes
Because these boys were sent to you from your Father from above.
So even when the thought shakes you,
Don't be scared to love.
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Sandoval
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
Talk to me
Talk to me about half-finished journals and empty theaters
Talk to me about the calluses on the soles of your feet
Do you think they look like art?
Talk to me about the bobby pins stuck between the sheets of your bed
Talk to me about the broken doorbell in your childhood house
Why have you never gotten it fixed?
Do you think it says a lot about your family?
Do you think it’s a metaphor for your parents’ relationship?
Talk to me about the ghosts in your head
I wanna see if they look like mine
If they were friends in some past, unfulfilled life
Talk to me about kites
Talk to me about knee high socks
What do they remind you of?
Talk to me about spilled lemonade
Does the sourness still linger on your tongue
Long after the mess as been mopped up?
Talk to me about your 10th grade English teacher
Do you resent her blatant favouritism?
Do you wonder why she didn’t like you the best?
Do you ever wonder why
It seems like nobody likes you the best?
Talk to me about the peonies in the garbage chute
Talk to me about untied shoelaces
And an 8 year old’s skinned knees
Talk to me about slippery floors
Talk to me about illegal downloads
Talk to me about Tarsiers
Talk to me about oil pastels
Do you prefer them over any other art medium
Because they are dirtier, messier and more difficult to work with it?
Talk to me about recycling
Do you think it’s pointless?
Or do you think it’s gonna make a significant difference?
Talk to me about Broadway musicals
Talk to me about Hercules
Have you ever dreamed of being immortalized
Through the whispering of the stars?
Talk to me about god
Do you think god made man
Or did man make god?
Talk to me about clay pots
Talk to me about cacti
Talk to me about the color grey
Talk to me about plastic balloons
When did you learn that the art of letting go
Is closely intertwined with the tragedy of loss?
Talk to me about films
Talk to me about knuckles
What do you tell your grandmother
When she asks why they are bruised and wounded?
Talk to me about Geishas
Talk to me about roadtrips
And that one time when you were 15
And you drove away in your older brother’s car
Feeling young and reckless and so so alive
Talk to me about pain
Every stabbing hurt
Every mouth filled with blood
Talk to me about joy
Both the abundance and the lack of it
Talk to me about love
And warmth
And light
And the sound of coming home
Talk to me
Write your life’s story on torn Christmas wrappers
And I will hold them in my hands like sacred beads of prayer
Talk to me
Open the cracks of your spine and engulf me in the shade of your eyes
Talk to me
Let me in
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Warm sauce
as hot as my blood
splattered all over the floor.
Spit out,
puked up,
you slammed my head on the floor.
Mop up or eat it.
You used my mopped head to clean it.
Ever since then, I couldn't eat spaghetti again.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC