"opener" poems
In your vision you are the only thing with bloodshot eyes.
You always wear a robe
that speaks seven languages... and a bank of fog is at your feet
nipping at your naked heel.
In your vision you remember how your arms feel in sunshine.
It is intense.
Your can-opener is hissing an etude
that alludes to wise men...
who bathe in miracles
and roam the world,
untarnished in Poverty.
Your can-opener whispers in hush tones
about barbarians at the gate. And they say
' they've come for the Linen ! '
You are not deceived.
In your vision you are the only thing that can backward engineer
a Universe.
On your way back to the homeland of your algebra
you hesitate. “ you may have left your keys in your Other Robe...”
The Robe that hallucinates constantly~ Carrying on about
' The dire consequences of leaving terrycloth alone with the keys '
and, afflicted with Prophesy Tourettes
the piteous tide of doom ' sayeth the robe '
you must suffer.
In your vision, you are the only one
looking for the keys.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 5:09 PM UTC
I was turned on by a Toaster, she tanned my bread to gold
In time she ejected me, it was her natural Toaster role...
I fell for her sister, a Deep Fryer in despair, my lust began to boil
I had to come up for some air...
I ran off with a Can Opener, she could even sharpen knives,
She opened up a can of *** whip, she could never be my wife!
I met a **** Freezer, but her heart was cold as ice, I was bitten by her frosty ways
Once bitten, never twice...
I made my way across the tile to an Oven quite unique
All her features were well displayed, on this EZ Baking Freak!
She cooked me on the surface, yet burnt me deep within
I guess my culinary skills were lacking in the end...
So now I date a Spatula safely from the heat
She flips a mean burger and french fries by the heap!
Truth is I'm a Poet
Who simply likes to eat!
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Disaster Preparedness Checklist
Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go
Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and a change of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife
But
No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.
They pipe in.
The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.
My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
Warming in the sun
Paws stretched; back to relaxing.
Can opener calls.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
How had he found himself in this dungeon
a knight thrown in here.
Sent by his king on his first secret mission
true he was dressed as a peasant.
Harshly he'd been treated a new experience
but not regretting being sent.
This awful place never inside one before
an eye opener for him.
Here he couldn't stay had to escape
report back to the king.
Noticed a sharp piece of wood at hand
shouting out a demand.
The jailer angrily came to the cell door
he banged on the grill.
In a temper the snarling man entered
within seconds he was dead!
Silently falling on to the dank stone
the knight left alone!
Few humans scurried about in passageways
of the castles lower depths.
Coming upon a sentry post a guard stood
soon his life had expired!
Putting on the uniform he was going home
with a sword he would roam.
Very lax security the knight slowly walked
into the alien countryside.
Luckily not challenged he saw a lone soldier
getting off his horse.
Never feeling the blow now homeward bound
with the information found!
Indeed the Barron was a traitor to his king
the knight an army would bring!
The Foureyed Poet.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Hurricane Preparedness Checklist
Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go
Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and changes of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife
But
No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
The blink of an eye
Is an eye-opener
So much change
Eyes can’t believe
As if eyelids
Are pulled by strings
Puppetry of events around
Our vision in a time warp
Soul has already envisioned
The events here and beyond
Late we realize this
Trusting our eyes for guidance
Soul and eyes aligned
Gives a deeper perspective
Much beyond the surface of things
An eternal understanding
To foresee what we are and will be
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.
I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.
The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain. If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.
A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.
Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.
The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.
The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.
The guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
**he had little to give, but gave it still
from his warm and generous heart
beating with a love pure and good
for his sister's children
so he seized the moment to stamp a value on my mind
gave me his prized bronze bottle opener
a fringe benefit from some fat kitchen where once he worked
with hot spices, sizzling grills and artistic salads
and now i have lost it, a thing of more than sentimental value
these gestures can never be repeated
they are the products of inspired moments
when somehow you know there can never be another chance
to leave some evidence that you too were here**
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
I want to write a poem that politically minded would read more:
My political allegiance: my contribution to the art:
those Snakes in the grass would adhere too: without obligation;
The hidden agenda of the world leaders
Would suddenly, take the Sephora masks off
just in time to reveal what we thought of them all along;
Those voices of the babbling brooks: some louder than the other:
the poem must expose secret of the ocean mystery /myth
Without apprehending the beauty
of the dolphins and the whales legal rights;
While its uninvited guests are caught up in their lies
we the people must say to them
"you all can’t plead the fifth" because
They are still a lot of trivia question for us to answer.
And it’s still difficult task for some of us to find
where's waldo amongst the leaders:
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
I grew up in a Muslim country
Where the culture is different;
Dress codes, cuisines, sceneries, and peaceful people,
Different from your local news' bombing news content.
I met different people at my old school, all of which are my friends;
Of different ethnicities, culture, and religion.
Despite our major differences, we treated each other as one;
We built a bond that is not made for oblivion.
I am lucky to grow up experiencing having a Muslim and a Christian for a friend,
I get invited to holidays like Christmas and Ramadan.
I get to see and feel the best of both worlds,
And respect for each religion is the key to living as one.
I wrote this to serve as an eye-opener
That the terrorists that you see on the news are not my Muslim brothers;
For when terror is claimed in Islam's name,
They disrespect the Islamic belief and teachings when they make that claim.
We need to live in a world where people thinks critically—
A world with no woman with a hijab is stared at disrespectfully;
A world where nobody uses Islam as a sign of terror;
A world with no discriminations, just peace and tranquility.
I hope we also learn cultural sensitivity,
For religion differences aren't something to joke about and be tagged with petty comedy.
Respect is what we need to have a peaceful community,
And if we really want to live in a world free from disquieting thoughts and emotions,
Let this all start with you and me.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
Whatchyaneed
God didn't give me a soul;
just lobbed me a baked bean tin
with something rattling inside,
said, "there ya go young un---
make do with that"-- so I did;
think it maybe a con job though,
the rattling thing must be getting soggy,
because it's stopped making noise.
Anyway I got curious; like you do,
bought myself a can opener and took a peek,
Discovered God must be a comedian
because there was a conker inside--
although beans on toast is my favourite meal,
and Conkers--------
my bestest game ever.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
I want to eat peaches and cream off your thighs,
Have I ever told you that?
Well, that’s what I want to do.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
When we are watching something weird
Before the Channel 5 news
Cruises through, like a liner,
And disturbs the World’s Worst Hurricanes.
I want dribble the cream down
To the tops of your knees
And watch each droplet coat,
Like a new skin,
Milky and new and thick.
Then I’ll reach for my tin opener,
Peach slices, neat, from the nearest Co-Operative
Arranged like humps of a lizard
Once believed to exist.
You'll let me, won't you?
You with your hair,
And your nails
And your laugh.
I want to eat peaches and cream off your thighs,
Have I ever told you that?
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.
But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.
Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade
Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.
Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in
Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.
I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.
Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.
I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.
Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at
Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
I listen to some words
verses in the holy quran...
I read some words
from pages to pages
from this beautiful holy book
I read the meanings
in the pages and chapters
The beautiful meanings,
An eye opener to my heart and soul...
A Complete stories about..
The past the present and the future
Let us all read and be told...
Let us all read and spread the message
This holy Quran is more than just words...
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Gray matter unfolds
To expose a world hence unseen.
What you thought was soft muscle
Is actually a community of golden pathways,
Carved from the hollow horns
Of unicorns, slayers of virgins.
Like a deconstructed accordion,
It flattens
And reveals a soul, a heart
Floating through space on the back of his fingers.
The deepest annals of the universe
Are uncovered for your eyes only
And for those few blessed moments
There is only greatness.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
Always trust it, don't ignore what your instinct, intuition, gut, whatever you wanna call it. Don't ignore it, and you should probably invest more with it. Its a big eye opener
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
Hey honey what your drinking?
Here have some wine , here comes the whisky
Did I just taste ***
Im preety sure that was a white liquor shot
O man nice bottle opener
Lets have a beer
O man I love you guys
Whisky shots
Ill just have a glass of ***
STOPPPP
**** hits
O is that a joint?
Sleep ,
Sleep
2 hours later
Is that a
Black label !!! in the counter AHHH
Im a bad colombian
Dad is stillgoing
I feel like throwing up
Colombian Christmases
Morning hangovers
Wake and bake joints
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
One has to speak their language - Cats
a snotty, snooty breed
Don't try to tell them what to do
Don't get them down when they are treed
They'll come down when they want to
when they hear the opening whirr
where can opener meets cat food
they'll walk out of that tree as if it wasn't there
and swish their tail as if to say
"it's nothing"
But, Oh, the softest love they have
when on your lap they softly purr
or stroking all that silky fur
and all the stress of passing days
so soon becomes a milky haze
and flys away, forgotten now
She loves you dear, there is no doubt
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
I’m angry.
I’m angry because pouring a glass of wine
is more important than asking me about my day.
I’m angry because when I tell you a secret
everyone knows in a matter of seconds
and you didn’t even say a word.
The wine did.
I’m angry because when I ask my father for help
all he says is
“this is how it is”.
I’m angry that I’m not stronger than your bottle opener.
I’m angry that when I cry for help
You can’t hear because you’re drowning
In wine.
I’m angry because you’re angry that i lie.
I lie because I’m angry.
I’m just angry, that’s all.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
palms are masks
that cover nothing
fingers, frustrated fishermen
combing dark waters, searching
for the uninhabited isle.
the tree stump pitifully trying
to grow,
melody of the typewriter,
the letter opener's song,
withered daisy in a plastic display,
hidden bookworm art
carved into dusty paperbacks,
overgrown, abandoned houses:
sleeping animal,
dormant jungle.
wet asphalt puddles of fallen sky
dead butterfly
blind blue eyes;
tragic, difficult, poetic
you are
poetically
(unplayed piano furniture)
useless.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC