"percolator" poems
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry
split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire
pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail
raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char
thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july
smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem
stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace
quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead
past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack
sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone
cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
some folks got it better than some
some people got it better than none
count my money like i'm countin' sheep
one eye open that's how i sleep
i got a big house and a fancy car
both of 'em got a hell of a bar
when push comes to shove mister talk is cheap
my three dollar shovel runs six feet deep
i'm a smooth operator
what's yours is mine
i'm a mover and a shaker
the devilish kind
start my percolator won't a drop be weak
born to be a taker
i'm playin' for keeps
feels so good
i'm so glad
i'm so bad
my old lady says she needs to be free
but no woman ever gets far from me
my backdoor baby told me she don't care
long as she's able to get her share
well i don't know about you and yours
this life of mine's worth fightin' for
man over yonder sayin' it ain't fair
hey i don't make the rules i just bring 'em to bear
i'm a smooth operator
what's yours is mine
i'm a mover and a shaker
the devilish kind
start my percolator won't a drop be weak
born to be a taker
i'm playin' for keeps
feels so good
i'm so glad
i'm so bad
eye to eye and pound for pound
fist for fist and round to round
i'm the one that gets the doin' did
and it's in season to flip my lid
last one to try me is dead and gone
don't even think of what you're thinkin' on
been there done that is on my mind
worlds unravel when i unwind
i'm a smooth operator
what's yours is mine
i'm a mover and a shaker
the devilish kind
start my percolator won't a drop be weak
born to be a taker
i'm playin' for keeps
feels so good
i'm so glad
i'm so bad
feels so good
i'm so glad
i'm so bad
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
He's Uncle John to you, but John to the rest of us
Got a way of telling stories without the fanfare or the fuss
He can jump into any conversation, has a lot of stuff to say
and every bit is interesting 'cause that always been John's way.
There was one about his summer job before 1970,
paid to push a Swan-shaped boat off a dock in Asbury
With a grapple hook on a ten foot pole, or something of that sort
well he'd push 'em out and pull 'em in wasn't doing it for sport~
The same guy who owned the swan boats, tunneled love across the way
twice a week John worked the darkness, but preferred the light of day.
Played rhythm at the Upstage in band called 'Cory' later
workin' Perkins in West Belmar, took the name from the percolator
Around that time he grew his hair out, it was like an Afro-sheen
mistaken for Tinker, a surfboard chinker and drummer with Springsteen.
Cruisin' down around Brookdale in his '39 LaSalle
Met 'Stinky' Tink at Thompson Park, where he was singing with his pal
Hey John, you look like Tinker,
but now you favor Gere
a live ringer for Mike Richards,
and don't forget DeNir-
Oh, if you can't remember anything from 40 years ago
just ask your Uncle John who knows the time in Tokyo.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
Amble On Gently
A star in my coffee...
It's immaculate Con-inception
The nature and science had a babe
and it's name is memory drip percolator
Human hybridization is no myth
It's me, it's you.
It's organic, it's mechanic
Oh, yeah!
For a braver new world
Cyberterrorism is practiced daily in the US,
not by misguided, youth troops
It's banks, advertising, and marketing
It those of us that like to pretend
Things certain things would never happen
Humanity's dreams are sold daily
Do you have stock in companies that support such things?
Do you remember being offered a pill to see your first IMAX film?
Dark money can't save you.
Did what they could, and sold the rest...
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
The testy toaster wheezes
a **** and frosty ******
"You sir can't taste
the sweet-meat of cause
if you won't stomach
its bland and crusty effect."
I'll come back to his riddle.
First, the percolator
keeps bubbling up
drips of bitter conversation
I've warned her nicely
to drop before.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC
stove-top percolator sits stove-top *****
house is a flippant mess of disgust and
attempt. there's a distant whisper of a
yell to somewhere someone else outside,
blinded windows and piquing sunlight
writing lawnmower hums to the conclaves
of covered eardrums and a thought crosses
the mind:
*'stale old coffee and undusted, unswept floors.
life is an attempt to keep the world clean and yet
lose yourself in the rubble *** it seems that all
secret desires crave an unmade bed'*
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
She’s scrubbing dishes too hard in our gutted sink;
the garbage disposal has been coughing up bile,
black coffee grounds still stinking of Jameson.
It was cold last weekend, so I’d made her a treat—
coffee as Irish as her mother’s on Christmas Eve
after all seven children went grumbling to bed.
But I spiked the percolator rather than her cup.
So she’s scouring the coffee *** scraping
rusted filaments of wire wool over black-stained
Inox Steel, erasing my mess. I try to kiss her cheek
as I squeeze behind her to toss another can in the trash.
Her hunched and weighted shoulders are cold
and she ignores me. Drenched with the tiredness
of soapsuds and bleach, eyes red and dripping,
hands perfumed with ammonia, her body folds.
I smile a smile of false teeth and true love,
awestruck at the bubbles that cling to her elbows.
She is beautiful, cracked and exhausted.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
These trips by the county boys,
Being further deputized as burly, armed elves
Tended toward the grim,
Taking them on roads way up in the hills
Where pavement was the stuff of fantasy
And the home-sweet-homes
Were ancient pock-mark and rusted single-wides
Or jerry-built additions uneasily affixed
To some abandoned hunting camp or outbuilding,
Third-hand rugs or tarps covering
Hard ground, possibly augmented with a sprinkle of sawdust,
And you learned not to do more than exchange hellos
With the parents (this just one more minor indignity,
One more for-today-only handout,
The toxic mixture of resentment and self-recrimination
Never far from the surface) and head for the kids
As quickly as politeness allowed, the smiles
(Sometimes positively beatific, others suitably wan,
Knowing that tomorrow would be another day
In a series of just another days)
And upon leaving one such place, a couple of the boys
Heard an incongruous tinkling, this place
Far enough from town and insulated by bluff and pine woods
Where it couldn't be from St, Mary's or Faith Baptist,
And turning the corner toward where they were parked,
They happened upon a black bear,
Improbably wakened and wandered from some nearby cave,
Toying with some improvised wind chime,
Comprised of old graters, 50s-issue percolator stems,
Silverware liberated from some Denny's or school cafeteria,
And as they backed away to seek
Some alternate path to their vehicle, the younger of the pair opined
Must be some angel getting his wings, hey?
To which his partner, who knew these hills
And their sundry denizens all too well replied
*You get that bears attention,
You're mebbe gonna find yourself on the waiting list*.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 4:23 PM UTC
*Wherever they are
Would you let these thoughts and dreams profound
Settle to the base of your stomach
Like that stray grains of coffee grounds
Not filtered through the thinness of society
But strained through the fibers of the heart
Ever flowing from the the mind
Until the truth is boiled down
And at the bottom of the cup found*
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
The percolator didn't percolate,
The grounds became stale,
My clay colored mug remains empty.
As empty as my soul and my stomach
O! Will the World quit not why it haunts me?
Torments me?
Teases and jests me?
No amount of Glory or Faith or Starbucks
Can ever hope to soothe
the aches in my belly,
and balm my heart,
and In warmth enrapture cerebral fluids
Yet to awaken from droggy musings.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
warm of sun through percolator cloud
waft of wind stale, flat on surface
all-fours;
mezzotint of sky blooms like an aged flower across the skirt of the dawn
lingering the acrobat hurtling
across hideous moonlight.
there is an exhausted sundial
in the feeble aurora. one Wednesday
yet all too many a day, tumble
of the calendar and the pompous talk
of clammy water over the pockmarked
streets from yesterday's surfeit rain.
i enter the hellish car fostering
the sun's fervor in the subcompact
like a tiny universe, constellations of
sweat on my forehead, a crumpled
carton of Marlboro in my pocket
whiff of dried leaf clinging to finger
this formidable silence across
the lounging Mahogany, on the road
treading homeward — caught in
wave of the next moment,
underneath the rain of a once tear
shed facing walls slouching towards
despondent sheets and scrunched body;
claimed whoever sees the
face of indelible yesterday, tremulous aspen tree dressed with cicatrices of old,
birds unraveling incarnadine wound from
upheaval of scabs, disheveled dog
naked without any reason at all,
weak in dog-joints and reeking
in dog-flesh carrying on his back the
supremacy of the sun,
i too, here, homebound and downtown
sings sleepy the reveille,
bridging the darkness there
letting in all aches and dangerous
playthings for strange men, open
the gates, mother, the pearl
of detergent I smell, in my hands shaped
cleverly, the rust of gate
and the saw-tooth music grating the
afternoon frightened and small,
resigned to bed; dark's afterthought.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC
The radiance of a raisin-hued sunset, mmmm begs to be devoured,
Surpassed only by the sun-kissed swish of your hair,
Freeze-dried mouse **** takeaway coffee, yuck never savoured!
Liberate that unwrapped shiny percolator from its cupboard lair!
A risen sunrise, nature’s soufflé, how delicious!
Matched only by your uplifting starlight smile,
Tooth destroying shop cakes, rock-like and dangerous,
Shamefully neglected family recipes, go on worth a trial!
A silvered-moonrise over a dappled seascape,
The equal just, of the bewitching tint of your eyes,
Inappropriate Use Of Capitals, Sadly There Is No Escape,
Poor education or the tyranny of Media Ignorance I surmise.
The magnificence of a frosted night, behold a starry-symphony!
Rivalled by the musical grace of your dance-like movements,
Other people’s mobile conversations, ill-mannered cacophony,
Full of their self-important pompous little moments.
The surreal eerie calm after a summer thunderstorm,
Mirrored by the eternally sunny charm of your blessed being,
The despicable litter of our fellows, their squalid pitiful art form,
From self-respect and consideration, perpetual fleeing.
An enchanted stroll through aromatic Springtime pastures,
Joyously refreshing, worthy reflection of your beautiful soul,
Sad humourless beings, their perennial blank-eyed gestures,
Barren and wasteful, a merciless lifelong own goal.
© Robert Porteus
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 4:55 AM UTC
my favorite time to see her is in the morning
so when i found her in the kitchen
with the orange dawn sunlight
swarming in on her face, i was elated
i felt a rectogenital tingle
she was in last night's liquid eyeliner
& a faded Prince tshirt & just a
bikini bottom as she zigzagged her hips toward me
i ran quickly thru the things
i wished i hadn't said last night
& watched her face bloom into
a pout i was born to kiss
she smelled like new shampoo
& the half joint sitting in the
conchshell ashtray sending its musk
ceilingward in ribbons
when we embraced she let me grab her ***
& that's how i knew all was forgiven
then she sashayed to the percolator &
returned blowing softly on a bulging
mug she ate fruit while i steeped & asked her
what our plan was for the day
"the beach, dummy, look at me"
which i did & she followed my gaze
down & nudged her **** to the side
to tease me with its unfettered sway
& the shifting quotation marks of her *******
against her stretched thin shirt
i slipped into an involuntary squint
as i brought the smoldering paper up
& pinched it to my whistle my gaze lingered
on those coral pink lips but
she kept her eyelids lowered
wrinkled her nose
& stood with one hip out
the other knee bent into the apricot light
& stared not at me but at the
dust motes floating in the soft warm mosaics of light
bouncing in time with the pulse from her temple
& my heart melts volcanic
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream, just a happy life,
nothign more...
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 5:34 AM UTC