"openers" poems
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
It's not that I’m hurt, it’s that I think I’ve been wounded.
If you wanted to be animals you should have done it outside.
I said you made me too sad and he sends his condolences in a get well soon card and he asks if he can sign the cast.
I KEEP PLAYING IT BACK:
HIS HANDS ARE BOTTLE OPENERS. SHE'S A RAKE IN HIS LAP. THIS FEELING IS LUKEWARM AND YOU DESERVE ALL THE BITTER IN THE ALCOHOL.
IF YOU WANTED TO BE ANIMALS YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE IT OUTSIDE.
I COULDN'T SLEEP IN MY BED
MY ROOM WASN'T MINE
I WANTED TO THROW MYSELF FROM THE BALCONY
I WANTED TO SEE
JUST HOW MANY BONES
I COULD GET AWAY WITH BREAKING
...
That night left a bruise.
And I'm
Still reeling.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
we should stop
to notice ordinary
everyday flowers
even the humblest
wildflower has
a delicate beauty
that makes it quite
out of the ordinary
simple, yet very
pretty flowers
each are different
soul openers
which represents the
beauty of nature
where flowers bloom so does hope
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue,
your tongue that came from your lips,
two openers, half animals, half birds
caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king's rules,
passing by your red veins and your blue veins,
my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole,
hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge,
where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury,
come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon?
If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts?
Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift
and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face,
your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop,
our breath became one, became a child-breath together,
while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
"Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod. We're heading for the Bourne
Bridge. We're circling the Bourne Circle." Bourne!
Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time
that I would be pierced and you would take root in me
and that I might bring forth your born, might bear
the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed
but this is the typewriter that sits before me
and love is where yesterday is at.
3.3k
Here, on the flatlands
I was put in my place.
formed and pressed
into their neat and presumably safe little box.
It's all they knew.
It is so hard to think of them as once children themselves,
formed and pressed.
Formed from a different time, with different conformists.
There are no manuals when we are born,
you get leftover instructions from previous pipe fitters.
Agrarian raised, like grain fed beef.
Complete with the fears and habits of bygone generations.
I leave one bite of each item on my plate,
with just enough drink to wash it all down.
I have done that as long as I can remember.
I want the whole candy bar, rather than just a bite.
Pressed and formed my Father saves.
He saves twist ties from bread bags.
He saves old welcome mats, and garage door openers.
He buys in bulk, and has two deep freezers full.
Full of freezer burn, tasteless, barely nutritious,
neatly formed and pressed portions of frozen in time Salisbury steak.
It is as if he himself would like to be frozen in time.
He is a depressionite child.
In the basement there is an old dresser that he found at a yard sale.
He painted it a hideous green,
but it has a formed and pressed neat white little doily on top.
In the top drawer there are various expired drugstore items,
some dating as far back as 35 years ago.
"You never know when you might need something in there."
Expired aspirin that has broken down into powder and smells of vinegar.
Vicks Vaporub, in the pretty blue glass jar, that is dried up and orderless.
All brand new and have never been opened.
Formed and pressed neatly in their little containers.
I watch these molders of my life slowly pass away,
becoming neatly formed and packed into their aging corner of the world,
neatly formed and packed into a stereotypical old folks home.
Forgotten, in the way, slow, aching.
Soon all they will have will be memories.
Soon all they will need will be memories.
Neatly formed and packed in their aging minds.
And then, like a comet that has shuttled through space
for thousands of years, millions of years,
they will burn out and fade into dust.
And their whole lives
will be neatly formed and packed
away,
in a trunk
in the attic,
to be opened like a time capsule,
at a later date.
the result of a week with my 94 yr old Parents
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
~
*Long live the king!
That is until—zooks!—a correspondence
from one indiscreet mistress
falls into the wrong hands
and passes before
the queen's eyes
it then becomes time
for a little Shakespearean tragedy*
~
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 2:51 PM UTC
the man nearby on the train clacks his laptop offensively
like the annoyance of noisy writers in school exams
when I was stultified by writers block
I wonder what the black girl would taste like
passengers feed their fatness with crinkly cellephane food substitutes
did you have a good weekend?
conversation openers start to chorus
corporate cockwombles
talk in jargon tongues
as they sell their souls
to white shirt organisational ambition
common sense takes a back seat
in the street car of Progress
there's talk of profit and effiencies
from men who never made their wives moan
there's talk of scalability and security
from those who know nothing of flexibility and risk
there's talk of innovation
from those whose personal best
is a smart phone
have you seen the latest?
what do you think?
hey, that's what I think!
we must be brothers!
in a cozy co-ordinated mediocrity.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
Everybody has hopes & dreams
Dreams that still do exist
Dreams that are going to be accomplished
Everybody has hopes & dreams
Those dreams feel far but they are closer than you expected..
You know that feeling deep down inside that you can’t explain but it brings a form of good energy...
It’s your hopes & dreams starting to form.
Get ready for the new growth
The new opportunities
The several eye openers
Everything is starting to feel fresh.
Free_ minded_lee🤍
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 6:09 PM UTC
Capture the moment
Joyous and pure
I tell you I love you
Shouting affectionate honesty
Can openers to reveal the unknown
My mothers my sister
My brothers her brother
Our fathers our cousin
His parents are his brother and sister
And I their grandchild
Kinship connected by blood
Our eleven toed tribe
Live rich lives of hard work
Keeping to ourselves
Peaceful loving
Yet looked down on
Put in the corner
But we digress
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
does everything change
window washers
door openers
now
top suite pimpin’
used to think the life
was about big, tall buildings
and suite offices
was it all a fairytale in the wind
was it all a memory
gone bad
did we imagine
our greatness
take it to another level
only to be wooed
by cake
and free beverages
work
aholic
mentality
fogged out
by love
and
freedom
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
One thing that get's me all venty
Is bad talk of jolly 'T' 20.
It's much better by half
So much more of a laugh
Because 50 is far more than plenty.
England play Pakistan later.
I think that our players are greater.
But Gul bowls great yorkers,
And other rip-snoters,
And the ball, oh Afridi, he ate her!
For England the openers are wrong
Neither will give it a biff or a ****
We need someone tough
And aggressive enough
To win it for us when on song.
Our bowling is coming on nicely
The spinners are landing it precisely
But the quicks can get hit
When missing length by a bit
Shouldn't do it like that more than twicely
Will we win it today, well who knows?
By then I'll stop blowing my nose.
I'm now on my knees,
So a close contest please.
I cannot wait to see how it goes.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
Iphone, laptops, and the internet is to make us all smarter
But it makes us all dumber, and life alot harder
Microwaves, bread makers, electric can openers so we can save time
To help us make supper on less of a dime
We no longer talk to friends we text
Ment to bring us closer but it's more like a hex
Want to see a sunset just look on a screen
Don't go outside that would be obscene
We spend all our time at work to buy possessions
It's like an obsession
This material world perplexes me
It's all around me, you see
Ment to bring us closer, save us money, and time
But we are always working so much, it's more like a crime
No time for family, friend or mother nature
In this material world we've fallen into a crater
Wouldn't it be funny if the plug was pulled
And we would have to go back to using hand tools
I think we all would turn into drooling fools
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
It may dig at your skin,
What you need to do is lift up your chin,
The voice may echo at the back of your head,
They are not even the worth of a single thread,
Don't waste your time on those who don't mean well,
These are the people who you do not want to dwell,
Those who simply take advantage of you,
Those who are, oh so very narcissistic,
Learn to have a spine,
Learn to stand up straight,
Learn to be up on your feet and appreciate,
Those who would run to keep you up,
Than those who wouldn't look back as you fall down,
Learn about your self worth,
Learn about who mean well,
Learn from those bad experiences,
The ones where you saw the true people,
The ones who stood by you every time,
The ones who never asked for something in return,
The ones who will never want to see you at your worst.
And from it all,
You are left to decide whether,
You want to learn or bring them closer together
Because in the end just remember,
from now until -December,
They were Eye-Openers.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall 3d
A Poem is not a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Poem is not a Helicopter
For Al Duquette
A helicopter is not a poem
A helicopter flies in three dimensions
If all of the systems are fitted just right
Otherwise, it does not fly at all
A poem is not a helicopter
A poem flies only metaphorically
If we rearrange the parts aesthetically
The poem might fly much better than before
One carries our friends wherever they want to go
The other carries our love to our friends
More exposition than I have ever written:
Al is my fellow volunteer in prison and was one of my mentors when I began. I am in awe of him because he flew helicopters with the Air Cavalry in Viet-Nam and then offshore with Petroleum Helicopters Incorporated. He is almost obsessively left-brained in all things and I am an old hippie so we are often on two different metaphorical channels. After some mutual suspicion we came to the realization – because the prisoners pointed it out to us - that in working with a class together we communicate the same ideas in different ways, and so are more effective.
Al sees no point in poetry, although he appreciates the little poems I hand out to the lads as class openers. I think this is because they (the poems, not the prisoners) are short and simple, almost always rhyme, and are mostly Victorian parlour poems which contain a moral lesson and encouragement. This week, while waiting for the guards to bring us the fellows, Al said that prose is made of words and poetry is made of words and in both categories we choose the most effective words, and so what makes a difference. I replied that a poem is not a helicopter, that not all the bits have to fit together in only one way. Prose is indeed a matter of the right words in the right places but that a poem is a matter of even better words placed in even better places (This is not an original thought; I don’t remember where I learned it.). Al accepted my answer, but of course maybe he was merely being polite!
Written by
Lawrence Hall
Sep 20, 2022
Sep 20, 2022 at 3:24 PM UTC
I cannot believe
I have not noticed before
When you have been
Right there all along
Every waking hour
Never mind the weather
I stand in front of you
In that silence of reflection
There is a token so true.
And I thought I had seen it all
Studied every single detail like my
Favorite painting on the wall
Then out of the blue,
When the color of the sky
Was everything but blue
Gawking at me
The tip of the tower
The tallest one in the city
Hovering over my shoulder.
It is ravishing, and a riddle
How I failed to spot it
Up until this second
And it struck me
I had been fortunate
Without ever minding it
Having had this view
Whenever I wanted.
Perhaps therein lies the mystery
Life filled with eye-openers
Even in the midst of certainty
Yet for all one knows
You are able to see
Clearly; only once you are
Truly ready.
Life piles up,
Each detail
Already beautiful
But such a different sight
A better one, that is right
After it dawns on you
The top of the tower is
Shedding the appropriate light,
Regardless how long it took
For you to figure out.
Now I see;
And I appreciate it
Much more lately
Perhaps because
Now I am ready.
You are the
Cherry on my sundae
The one that makes
My life landscape
More poignant
More significant
With each passing day.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Iphone, laptops, and the internet is to make us all smarter
But it makes us all dumber, and life alot harder
Microwaves, bread makers, electric can openers so we can save time
To help us make supper on less of a dime
We no longer talk to friends we text
Ment to bring us closer but it's more like a hex
Want to see a sunset just look on a screen
Don't go outside that would be obscene
We spend all our time at work to buy possessions
It's like an obsession
This material world perplexes me
It's all around me, you see
Ment to bring us closer, save us money, and time
But we are always working so much it's more like a crime
No time for family, friend or mother nature
In this material world we've fallen into a crater
Wouldn't it be funny if the plug was pulled
And we would have to go back to using hand tools
I think we all would turn into drooling fools
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
I just wanna listen to you inhale for a moment and exhale the next
I just want a little time to remind you why I'm here with you and just what you did that caught my eye on that funny little day way back last October
I could do with some quick glances your way while you're not looking as to catch you in those moments you let your true feelings show, when you think no one is watching.
I just want a few chances to brush my hand along yours in a crowded room of people we sort of know
If only, if only to give a quick reminder of the familiarity that is still there.
I want your tshirt smell to be my calm down after a stressful drive home from work and I want to share spaghetti with red sauce and cheap wine
Kiss my neck and be my friend and hold me close because I need you so much more than I would ever show because the fact that I just wanna hear you inhale for a moment and exhale the next scares me into a million tiny pieces of worries
But here I am wishing for another day in October to see if I could really be yours in the way I wished to be for so long
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
We spat watermelon seeds across the sidewalk
And I know that secretly we both wished that beautiful things could grow from cement
We would've weaved the vine into my hair, because green is your favorite texture
And you've never been able to run your fingers through my eyes the way you can this mane
Love
Sometimes
I took a pocket knife and cut the skin from tomatoes
Because seeing something raw and untouched like that made me wish I could peel your thoughts away just as easily
But none of my can openers worked the way they promised they would
So it's up to you to open your cans of worms, I suppose
Dump them in the dirt of my mind
I promise beautiful things grow here
Somewhere
It's just that you haven't planted any kisses in a while
And I'm waiting for the rain before I invite you to do something rash and wonderful like that
Can you believe I snapped the handle off my ***** today
The ground was just so difficult
I couldn't make room for the new thoughts I'd like to grow
Or even succeed in throwing out the dreams hanging from dead cherry blossoms in the yard
Well, the second is not really because of my ***** I have spares
But must I be distracted by your beautiful eyes glancing through the peepholes in my fence as I work
You have so many beautiful things to tend to in your own yard, love
Make a book of poetry about them
And send it to me when you get lonely for feedback or compliments
Can I tell you a secret nobody knows
I hate the part where I must follow the trail of realities to the back door where my dog is chained to meet me
Once again, abandoning my attempts to grow beautiful things from this paper
For you
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
Stumbling around Ikea together
For fun on a rainy day, road trip
Admiring things yet to have
Can openers and dish racks
Aisles and aisles of flatware
Fitz and the Tantrums emerges from the ceiling speakers
One of my favorites
I start to sing quietly to myself
As we careen around the displays
I catch you humming to the tune as well
And something just rung in my heart
As the radio intoned
"You were just the right kind,
Yeah, you are more than just a dream"
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
That's right
I rule OAS other openers
I wonder if elli or Eliot thinks I'm good, does he even kin
I dout it . But you do ,. Writ)(/ isn't that right
It's a little abstract I haven't I've hardly rhymed
Ya think I can spell of not antididdesterblismentarianlid
Alright IDE that's right walken
I'm really thrilled you're here and you'd read my own poems it
It's
It's just effective really really repenen
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
When war comes
Not a matter of if
But when
History repeats
Itself
Again and again
Have to stay fit
Have to stay thin
The food supply
Will dwindle down
Perhaps U.N. troops
Will be occupying our towns
Those muscle bound men
WIth so much mass
It will be harder
For them to last
There will be
Barely enough to eat
I will be grateful to
Own many pairs of good socks
And good running shoes
On my feet
I have two can openers too
Just look what I can do
Our own supply will last a month
Or two
After that, we are just plain *******
If I could save up enough money
I would buy more
For there are terrible times
In store
The glow of the smart phones
Lulls them away
Living in a dream world
But there is trouble today
America broke
And at her end
This economy will not mend
Dig your holes deep
Pile earth and wood
Exposure to radiation
Is no good
If there is a war
I just hope
That there are no
Nuclear bombs
They are no joke
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
To those who rise at 4 in the morning.
Sin cannot win and faith cannot fail.
For those rising not for the occassion
But for the necessity of being.
This one's for you.
For all the coffee spilled on leather car seats,
And the evidence that the caffeine runs
Differently through your veins.
Because let's face it. You need it.
You were told the youth of Germany
shared your taste in coffee and cigarettes
For breakfast.
Here is to those who have never seen the sun set,
but greet its rise with a forsaken smirk,
as it has lost its luster by now.
You can take a shower later, for that
final fifteen minutes could equate a
winters hibernation at this point.
They say for every step forward, you take
two steps back, but that's hard to believe
When the world is standing still.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
You Know You’re Getting Older When…©
The scroll bar for an online application
takes forever to get to your year of birth
The creaks you hear are your bones
not the floor boards
Younger people take the time to hold the door
open even without asking
Taking an escalator or elevator instead of stairs
is the only option
Switching the phone from ear to ear
doesn’t make hearing any easier
Can openers and jars become the enemy
You swear your arms are getting shorter
making tying your shoe laces a challenge
“Say again” are the most commonly used
words in your vocabulary
You save money on haircuts and shampoo
as there is less to work with
Grey becomes your new favorite color
Slow now feels fast
Cat naps are mandatory
The right lane on a highway becomes your domain
You need eye glasses to find your eye glasses
The remote is an extension of your hand
“Skip to the lou my darling” are
more than words to a song
And that’s just the short list
Don’t laugh, someday you’ll be there
Andreas Simic©
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
Truth has no greater friend than poetry.
I would go as far as to say they are bowling buddies
on the weekends and share stories over coffee regularly
during the weekdays, reveling in their perfect experiences
together.
When they talk, they don’t simply chat. No,
they communicate, walking the same walk because one is
as it is and the other proves very adaptable. Words uttered
with the constraint of structural dominance lose their oomph,
only flickering with what could have been.
I had a dream today that orange flowers and
purple thoughts could one day rise up and live together in
the confines of our minds.
No thinker is more instinctual than a poet and thus requires
a reactive art form. Trust me, I have sat down and thought deeply
about this after a long walk without destination where I scrutinized
the look and feel of my surroundings until I got bored
and got the usual at the bagel shop.
Explanation in conversation never really explains anything.
Better to leave breadcrumbs behind for someone else to find,
pickup and eat their way to an answer. If you think of a poem as a
wood littered with pieces of starch then consider my message received.
Unfortunately no letter openers exist and it may or may not have been
written in Icelandic depending on what day of the week it arrived.
Try to remember that words provide the only route to realities
of the past and so word choice is paramount. Recollection need not
contain any buildup or letdown; just get to the point stupid.
If you want to waste time then flip through magazines that
don’t really interest you or eat food that you don’t actually desire or
perhaps write a novel that takes way too long to finish. If, on the other
hand, you grasp the enormity of my plea and desire to communicate with
the world as a ambassador of truth and explore the darkness like a
21st century Columbus then by reading these last few words here
you are that much closer.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC