"pails" poems
Let us gather seashells
Collect them and dump them in our pails
Then we'll hold a seashell
Then we will bow our heads and close our eyes
And we will say prayers for each other
And pray about things that weigh upon
Our hearts.
~Marian~
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
____________
It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
____________
Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
_____________
Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
_____________
It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
_____________
Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”
Yellow ____
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –
the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines
Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside
reflecting beauty –
“Take your sister's hand.”
Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
4.5k
As though their roles are irreversible,
As only comforters to bread winners,
And thought as weak oft perceived as sinners,
The men rules, women seems incapable.
Dear fathers why burdened your daughters so?
Of women's jobs but forced the girls to fill
The pails with water, wood from distant hills,
Instead of school to learn what they should know.
Herded at tender age to married life;
Heaven's rewards engraved on simple minds;
To tidy, cook and wash, no cuddly toys,
Be ever present, good, obedient wife.
They need your love, affections so be kind,
They strive in onerous world with men and boys.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
My "place of clear water,"
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass
and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,
after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows
those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.
3.9k
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
****** window screens and
Spray-painted limousines
Broken fingernails
Collecting dust in water pails
Chewed mosquito bites,
Lurking men of the night
Procession of death,
Headaches and shortness of breath
Physical or mental abuse,
Which road will you choose?
Abstinence with a keyhole of trust,
Unknown of love, engulfed in lust
Short distance and reoccurring sunsets,
a sunrise of jealously paired with eternal fret
Frustration, confusion, nothing less,
Hope is lost as you fail that test
Life mirrors’ a repetitive game
No purpose just filled with hallow halls and shame
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:50 PM UTC
matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
really hot days
remind me of my home
the one across the sea
with mangos ripe on the vine
and yellowed grass
if I close my eyes,
i can almost taste the dust in the air
feel the warm embrace of my family members
that i miss so dearly
smell the petrichor off the hot cement floor after a fresh monsoon rain
time zones apart feel like worlds apart
and they are
when your family is dying
and there is no way to comfort your aunt
because her husband is taking his last breaths
there was no chance for her to say goodbye
to her father, to her husband,
both lay in hospitals
continents apart
isolated, but not unloved
both gone, not even a month apart
the borders have been closed for i don’t even know how long
there is no physical way for us, let alone her own children, to be present
all we do is wait
most of my memories are spent on
drinking chai on the veranda
or dancing in the rain with Papa
playing holi with pails of water mixed with “gulal” and water pistols.
seeing the smiles of all my family members,
together once again.
really hot days
remind me of my home
smoke from the wildfires mimics the smog in the air
the sun - a red ball in the grey sky
if i shut my eyes real tight
i can still get a glimpse of us on the rooftop, celebrating life.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:15 PM UTC
This was my sand yesterday,
Hot and gritty,
Yet comforting, embracing
Under my towel.
Troves of precious shards of shell
Mapped into mind
With the jellyfish abandoned
By the tide
Just out of reach of cool waters
And a pool carved
With ramparts and towers,
An ambitious child's construction
Proudly pronounced eternal.
But we took pictures
To remember,
Anyway.
Now, after breakfast,
Into blue too perfect
This morning's sun rose
To a sky spilled
Cloudless and clear
Over new land
Reformed by night swells
Gulls and terns blown on,
Friends' footprints cleared,
The castle lost
By waves or wind's gusts.
It seems alien now.
My toes dig ever deeper
To discover if warmth
Is still here, hiding below
The surface of what I can see.
Morning's winds fling
Biting bits chipped
From far-off mountains
Cheek and legs sting
In force of anger born
Far offshore,
While the children nestle
My jacket for shelter
It can't give them today.
The tourists left - the sand is ours
To reshape, imprint with feet again.
And plan for tomorrow -
Umbrella, blanket, pails,
Embrace sea's eternal rhythm.
We'll stay.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 3:36 PM UTC
Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.
Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.
Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.
At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....
The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.
Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...
And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.
We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.
And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....
Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
down the main drag of our town
the thundering sound of motor bikes did resound
folks in our town rushed out doors
to see what was making such an almighty roar
the bikers were on their monthly charity rally
they stopped at the local pub owned by John O'Malley
they partook of a ration of ale
whilst filling their donation pails
after an interlude in our small township
they straddled their chrome plated Harley ships
to ride along the country byways
on this most magnificent autumn day
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
My elbows feel damp today like they’ve been sitting in
Small pails of oil and someone forgot to tell me.
They feel drenched
Where if someone tried their very hardest to pinch the skin
I would feel no pain.
My only moment of invincibility.
My elbows are boney-
From my mothers side of the family
Like my toes are shaped like my fathers
And no amount of brightly colored nail polish will distract from that fact.
My hair is all my own and my eyes, a cinnamon mix
Caught between browns, yellows, and
Gluey waves of molasses.
But my elbows feel damp today
Even though its fall and skin likes to crack and break and shutter in the wind’s blue outrages.
But skin is only skin
And I didn’t die from scraping my knee on that branch hidden in the big vulnerable pile of leaves…
It’s fall. And leaves are caught struggling with
Conformity and peer pressure.
Their newly painted toenails scream out insecurity;
Caught between greens, yellows, and
Cinnamon mixes.
Like gluey waves of molasses.
I bet some of those leaves have damp elbows too…
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Where Phil's ship set sails
With the biggest whales
His legend has tales
And he spouts no fails
In the depth of nails
His hammer has gales
With winding winds of hales
He keeps to his trails
Leaving quests that impales
Five consecutive NBA finals scales
With LeBron and Leonard's pails
He fetches more water to rescales
With Lakers, his thirst now flails
Bringing hope his ship prevails
Logan Robertson
7/15/2019
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
I used to carry two buckets
It was easy, each swing weightless
I filled them with thoughts of the day and put them on the shelf at night
People began to fill them with their favorite things
At first I liked the kick knacks
Bibles, shards of scrapping paper, handicap stickers, elephants and stars, kids menus, empty party bottles, movie reels and a wadded up half finished confession on the back of a napkin.
The weight began to grow
I enjoyed it, the build of muscle, the struggle of hard work. I could feel the sweat on the sides of my forehead and I was proud. These buckets were a sign of success
they were my trophies
and I polished them every night
the sweat began to pour
into my buckets
I hated the sloppy stains left behind, legs bored with the gain
no longer willing to put in the time
my buckets. my little spits of treasure
I wanted to tip them over the bridge like a butcher chucks his slimed waste into the dump
I let things go
Into the river. let the buckets settle into the slush at the bottom of a cool drink.
If I want to hold something, I'll use my hands
and if over my palm all things drop- I'll know I'm only human
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
*Commanding the 'Crows Nest' in search of submarines on Panama City Beach
Our curiosity in real time demand , blanket oceanside Admiralty
Mariners were towing the ocean yachts into portland that day
Tales of Neptune , ambergris , running *** and rough sail
Riding the easterlies , filling our shell pails
A prize for gifted imaginations indeed , sand dollars and -
cirrus clouds above the warm turquoise Sea* .....
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
A couple wuz beading up
for a chi chi day
She drunkenly laughed
**** stained her dress
A olive skin woman
in golden glitter pasties
Offered neon *** shots
near 10 in the morning
A chubby girl dressed
in a black fishnet body suit
selling face paintings
while her supple *******
Jiggled in your face
A black man occupied
A most different plain
Sat behind two chess boards
wasn't gettin paid
Two SAP cars parked
At Royal Sonesta curb
idling to taxi exec sappers
back to the friendly skies
****** whippin glitter girl
Shakin her money maker
Lookin hard at her wares
What the hell she sellin?
Across the street
miked up bible thumper
Doin his groove thing
Raged against the ***** show
Ca ching ca ching ca ching
I ducked a bity bee
Flying at my face
I'm walkin Bourbon
Full of mighty grace
Hard Rock Guys
selling cannabis lollis
crowded corners bumpin
Ain't no trollies
boom box blastin
back beat samples
Who Dat Jazz?
muskrat rambles
Three card monte
Obstructive beggers
Kids banging on
5 gallon drums
Gimme a dime mister
Louie Armstrong Park
Congo Square
Where it at?
Gotta get there
***** Glitter still barking
Mardi ****** Gras tees
Snapchat Me Your *****
Ducked another bee
Kid put his two pails
In mid of the rue
Gotta pay the toll
Whatcha gunna do?
Music:
Mardi Gras Music
From NOLA Notes
2/18/17
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
You don't hear it much
My music, my muse
My soul was taken away
That's something big to lose
Contracts signed and sealed
Delivered...not to me
Money never came my way
Not a penny did I see
Follow the music and you will find
Musicians like me,
We all went and signed
Contracts worth nothing
Not to us, not a cent
Follow the money
And see where it went
We poured our emotions
Our hearts and our souls
We gave them our music
Which they all then stole
Producers, execs
all down the line
All made the money
On songs that were mine
I heard all the rumours
But, they must be wrong
Then I wrote and signed off
On another hit song
Follow the music and you will find
Musicians like me,
We all went and signed
Contracts worth nothing
Not to us, not a cent
Follow the money
And see where it went
I was not famous
But, there must be some sales
Just follow the money
From the bargain bin pails
Somebody, somewhere
Was raking it in
As companies folded
In the business of tin
Houses of cards
Fold and collapse on the floor
But, the money went somewhere
'Cause I'm still in the stores
Follow the music and you will find
Musicians like me,
We all went and signed
Contracts worth nothing
Not to us, not a cent
Follow the money
And see where it went
Somebody made out
Like a bandit with me
My albums still selling
From around sixty three
Just follow the money
And see where it goes
Into some execs houses
And some dj's nose
I'm too old to go
And do a oldies rock show
I'm always invited
But, I never will go
My voice is all raspy
And one thing's still wrong
I get paid for the singing
But, I don't own the song
I know that I made it
But I hate the sound
Of my music creations
That I sold by the pound
Every time that they surface
On late night FM
I know somebody else
Made cash off of them
Just follow the money
And then you will see
The thousands of others
Who were ripped off like me
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And raveled a flower and looked away—
Play? Play?—What should he play?
1.5k
It is so very dark in the ark.
Forgive me Lord for I am afraid.
This lack of light has begun to burn
and I am suffocating, crushed
between pineapples and pigs.
Forty days and the flasks are all empty,
I drank every last drop of your blood.
Forgive me, for I was hungry and afraid.
Your Word was no longer enough.
Such stench and sway.
Such darkness, water and sick.
You promised me rainbows, white doves
and a rose bush when I die.
Bring pails and pliers, you said.
Gather corks, crayons, and screws.
Unwind the rhyme, you said.
Listen carefully: live.
But I am no sage.
I know nothing of verse,
even less of curses.
So I built it
and waited for wind.
You told me that I was your chosen.
That I was to carry the wine.
I believed you.
I should have eaten the pigs.
They're beginning to rot.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC