"plopping" poems
Purple sheets of petal,
Softly glowing in the dark
Of almost night.
Softly touching my cheek,
the enveloping cloud
surrounds me like a neon cloak.
I can see your face
reflecting in an overflowing
purple pool of mist.
And petals gently plopping,
enveloping the image
of your loveliness.
(Jacaranda madness)
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
2.3k
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
the ghost of
Elvis
continued
eating
and
stopping
and plopping.
they sure were
going
no where
purty
****
quick
thought the
big fat bus
with the
big fat
yellow bootay...
something needs to be done
and
lickety
quick.....
pondered the big
fat bus
with the BIG fat Yellow Bootay...
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:06 AM UTC
Rain in Michigan is unlike any other
Yesterday, I had a conversation; Michigan was the best state out of all.
rain here falls lightly on the fresh green grass.
Soft sounds of the rain fall deliberately plopping against a clear glass window; waking up is glorious.
Michigan's lakes and rivers litter the state.
Rushing fresh cool Forrest blue water through thick Woods or beside back dirt roads.
Michigan smells clean and pure.
Drifting pungently consuming passengers to roll car windows all the way down and take a heavy breath, in.
Michigan rain lights even dreary days
As a partner or an old friend saying hello Pouring memories refreshing the earth.
Michigan was brought up in a conversation I had while going to a wedding,
Michigan was brought up when wecomed home after being absent for a year.
Michigan has brought me up
As I have watched it grow
Rainy or clear.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
-
Greetings,
I am the empty chair you just recently
pushed into the carport like some unruly
child made to stand in a corner.
Not a new chair for sure,
but you made me _Your_ chair
by the force of gravity,
transforming my cushion into
perfect contours in the image
of your ***
Though you were always careful
if crumbs fell into me to get up
and brush them away,
and instead of just plopping down
hard on me, you sat gentle and easy,
even if only doing so to soften the
shock for yourself,
there were moments as you sipped beer
you let it slip through your bottom lip,
dripping on me with bitter aftertaste.
Still, I was forgiving of that, and even
to those numerous occasions of you
venting your evening meals.
But the one event that forever sullied our
personal relationship was the morning you
woke on me soaked in most of the past
evening's
~~brew
Though you tried to patch things up
with towels and scented sprays,
we were never to look upon
one another with the
same recognition
again.
I know now the days for me here number
far less than the buttons of the controller
you so frequently lost between my cushions,
giggling me in your efforts to retrieved it.
Although our separation will mean for me a
transformation into a twisted pile of springs,
stuffing, splinters and ripped cloth within the
bucket jaws of a front end loader in the snow,
I can take some comfort with me to the
resting pits of jettisoned human folly that
our severance was of no fault of my own.
yours truly,
Chair...
s jones
2007-2020
.
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-fucked sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
13 shades of blue
With strokes of brush
****** in leathery paint
I Colour me treize
Hues of blues
Into the blue yonder
Runs my mind
Picking for my throes
Carnations blue
Cerulean paint I
Silence of my orbs
Dandelion desires
Shimmer sapphire hue
Laughter echoes
Waterfalls Periwinkle
Meconopsis curiosities
Walking avenues
Rocking plopping
Dances my heart
As morning glories
Jewelled with dew
Electric energy, glacial blush
Reflected from mine zaffre soul
Clematis colored my Aster touch
I - a blend of Majorelle blues.
© Dr. PRERNA SINGLA, 2015.
Please note that the poetry is copyrighted by Law.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fairy thimbles = related to fairies
Aster flower = healing
Morning glory = borns in day dies in evening
Blue hibiscus = splendour , serenity
Clematis = mental power, courage faithfulness
Dandelion = happiness
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
Timing is everything;
Even the weather,
Comes into play.
A cold and rainy
Late-Sunday afternoon
Is no time to end
A love relationship:
To say goodbye for
A very long time; nor,
To remember someone
Crying as you walk away.
Glistening, dark-colored umbrellas
Reflect sad, gray clouds
Drifting so slowly by.
Rain drops mask the tears:
The sighs and sobs of
Gloom weighed heavily by
An incessant, pervasive rain--
Pit, pat, pattering on
Tin roofs; or, plat, plop, plopping on
Foggy windows; or
*** tat, tattering
On walls already swollen
With grief and misery.
Yes, timing is everything!
Even the weather comes
Into play when you finally
Have to say to someone
“Goodbye”, forever, and,
“I do not love you anymore.”
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
There was heat lightning as I walked back home that night.
it was Saturday, or rather, Sunday,
5 am, still dark
when I got his text and I wondered this: how far can two strangers go?
how quick can two fall in Love,
and just how quick does it take
for ignorance to come on?
Love is not Love anymore.
but I’ll admit to missing this,
only to you, my reader:
I do sometimes miss the sight of my once lover
walking towards our table with two cups of coffee in hand.
he hasn’t memorized my order yet, and I’m content with this.
it’s moving slowly, we’re just friends that happen
to spend a lot of time together, and share favorite movies,
and favorite songs, and could listen to a newly discovered old album
all the way through
just lying on his bed
and gazing at each other.
we could stare into the other’s eyes till we found our own reflection.
he was in me as much as I was in him.
Love is not love anymore
when I’ve left that part of me in upstate new york, in another land.
Love is being content.
but I am not content with myself
or my others that try to be significant,
like the one who sent that text,
hopeless, romantic, and misguided.
I am not in Love, reader,
not since him.
so when I got this text and he said that he could imagine us together,
holding hands, in a state beyond
nice, simple, naïve, simplistic
friendship,
I paused
stuck in my place,
for long enough that the lightning had a chance
to greet the storm.
the rain pummeled down, extraterrestrial,
and the bag of White Castle burgers I carried
disintegrated.
as the bag narrowed down in size, sliders plopping down onto the pavement
I kept running towards my home, trying to forget that our friendship was in question.
Love is not love anymore.
it scares me more than it should.
I’d rather let my seven dollars go to waste,
than give into love’s blind, bitter taste.
I’d rather my toms be pounded down into the pavement by the rain
and later spend three days drying in the back of my closet
and have the security guard stare at me, confused,
as the last of my sliders fall down onto the sidewalk outside his door.
“That’s a mess,” he says,
as if I didn’t know,
and he makes no move to help me clean it up,
so I choose not to reply to him.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
The gentle ins and outs of sleeping breath
Spin off course, out of reach of embracing sheets
As morning breaks open on tangled limbs,
A twisted un-choreographed mess.
Weaving a crooked trail down the too-straight hall,
Ten toes take a tripping routine,
Attached to unmetered beats
Soft padding drum hits
Feebly tumbling across the shined wood.
The still sleeping glow of light
Pressing through the window glass
A spotlight for the kitchen’s stage,
A lone performer improvises unsteady forms.
But the subtle crunch of scooping grounds,
Like the shivered shake of the tambourine,
Catches the wavering rhythm up
To the steady plopping drip,
To the upward bending tone of the cascading pour
Drum-rolling up and up and up to
The ecstatically sighing high note of that first sip.
And the scent, like deep purple, wafts
Filling the room with thick unseen swirls
All at once heavy and weightless, landing on skin
Like a light breeze without force and only depth.
Pressing against the lungs from within them,
Persistently full, yet buoyant.
And as the warmth spreads behind the lungs
A small twitch of the hip courses to the flick of a toe
And from every fingertip pumps into ignition
Fluid joyful movements.
Hot energy flows through veins,
Fearlessly leading through tough turns and twists.
And morning has only just begun.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
discussing with friends they,re eclectic noggins bobble suddenly
slowly quick the wagging of tongues juxtaposed to startled teeth
in rhythmic ques they pour daft prophecies in hideous giggling
we talk and amble amiably on every topic odoring and tepid shifting
slickly
it's easy and the sun frails and we joust winking verbs and nouns and and
or we entertain electric chaos screens bulging distended growls of death
or cinema or. outside it's raining, beautificly a synonym for damp patterring
of a 1,ousand tiny feet and plopping uncertainly violent puddles staggering
and the iron weight bears heavy on the hills dimpling the hips of earth
or we are static for a few and hours we make goodbyes and promises
of recurrence we,ll never keeps the night our tired bodies as we make
to the cold metal leather bucket seats and outside it's muttering rainfully beauty...
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
Rain is dripping
Down...
Down...
Down...
Rolling to the frosty ground.
Rain is dripping, freezing there,
Falling through the frigid air.
Rain is plopping on my nose.
Plinking, plonking, down it goes.
Freezing to my window pane.
Little moments in the rain...
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
I hear you pull into the drive and the free spirit
I've exercised all day abruptly folds into itself.
I greet you at the door with a pasted smile,
asking how your day was, expecting no reply yet,
feeling the sting when I get none.
Supper is served and you take yours into the
living room, plopping yourself on the couch,
balancing the plate and the remote with the finesse
of a curbside juggler.
I remain at the table, staring at you, staring at the TV,
while a childhood rhyme plays in my head,
*Nobody loves me, everybody hates me.
Guess I'll go eat worms!*
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
with certain jesting apprehension
i entertain her moist ***** darting elocutions
she's splaying candidly 'pon ever
witless grunting foul vocular aberration
outside the roaring box of wet tinder
's a window slapping manacle
of steely girth. the sky's tongue
folds straightening air into the fat
oblong of the sea particularly
as probably i'm listening listlessly
to grand nothings plopping gently
from loose teeth grinding small
headed sally i'd could hardly say i care
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
**** Mucus
The alternative man liked an **** massage
Getting his sphincter muscle lovingly relaxed
This allowed his **** mucus to flow with love
Every time he took a dump in the royal throne room
Pushing a curly big **** with S turns in it out
Plopping into the bowl like a fish back in a pond
The masseur did the best **** massage
It was only money and it all got soothed
Green enjoying his **** hole massage
Making sure he produced mucus to ****
That and regular sphincter muscle work outs
With a big black ***** and American **** plug
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 7:23 PM UTC
I call you through Audible
the auspicious click- whirrrrrr
of voice-violin-strings
(sometimes wind tells me
you don't listen)
the empty response
of car upholstery
gnaws on
my attempts?
(But you answer through Poets)
the punctuated; nonsense
of- everything Important
slammed stuck. stretched-
like pebbles plopping
from your bluest you
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
-
I saw her out there in the park
A kite she held up high
Running at a faster speed
It wouldn’t seem to fly
She looked a bit frustrated
And tried it one more time
Now tangled up within the string
Just like a ball of twine
Oh my god, how embarrassing
I think he's heading my way
Looking at me puzzled
Not sure just what to say
I must look rather amusing
Tangled up like a little kitty
Plopping down defeated
No breeze in this windy city
Look at her, she is so cute
Sitting there upon the ground
A light blue kite rests in her lap
And on her face a pouty frown
“Why so sad,” my heart it breaks
She looks like she will start to cry
“Come on, stand up and let me help”
“Together we can make it fly”
I took his hand and stood back up
Untangled from the twine
Now ready to give it another whirl
He positioned himself in behind
He placed his arms around me
Took my hands into his own
The wind is picking up again
From our hands the kite now blown
It soared high up into the sky
We held on to the string
So far it traveled in the air
Her smile it did bring
“You see, that wasn’t very hard,
it just takes some finesse”
But holding her is much more fun
Yes that I do confess
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
The first of any month
is strange like
the peeling of a
hard boiled egg
where the sharp shards
if shell get all
stuck up
in cold fingernails
and the rubbery white
sphere of molded egg
jiggles and slips
plopping hard
on the white tiled floor
but it never breaks
just keeps it's shape
staying whole and
rolling off past the kitchen
and onto the warm
living room rug
where it stays
stuck and melting
becoming one with
the ruby red color
like a round white eye
glaring up at the world
unable to blink.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC
i sit awake
in an empty room
staring at a screen
while she lies awake
in another room
staring at a screen
i slowly wake up
roll over in bed
stare at a screen
she's already up
eating oatmeal
staring at a screen
i pour my coffee
sit down with my cereal
staring at a screen
where'd the day go?
already late afternoon
staring at a screen
i refill my water
gulp down some health
staring at a screen
a neighbor drops by
just to say hi
and stare at a screen
time to prep dinner
need a recipe
so i stare at a screen
chop chop chop
cooking up a storm
staring at a screen
sit down together
sharing a meal
staring at screens
scrubbing the pots
drying the plates
staring at screens
plopping down on the couch
resting from a long day
of staring at screens
crawl into bed
kiss goodnight
stare at a screen
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 11:17 PM UTC
endless drip-drop-plopping pling-pop puddles pooling over
their self-constructed boundaries,
spilling into rainbow chem-drip paintings on the darkened pavement,
melting into unseen hues of wetness.
the super-saturated ground continues to collect the leaking of the sky,
compiling samples of the potions spilling from clouds who gathered too much magic to hold onto by themselves.
bustling busy-bodies cower under fabric roofs,
only to be barraged by rising tidal waves rolling at their feet,
sneaky splattering from dirt sick of being stomped upon.
under the cover of brick and mortar
searching eyes are stuck staring out blurred window-panes,
hypnotized by the water-works and
feeling nostalgia for a time when they lived under the sea,
evolutionary longing for ancestral roots that escape understanding.
entranced by the suspended flight and splendid crash landing of
parachute droplets sent through a long descent as singular entities
to dissolve back into a homogenous being at the end of the journey -
separating and reconvening, reforming and dissipating.
drip-drop drip-drop all the same,
everything as everything else under the guise of arbitrary names,
dripping-drop plopping in watery refrain,
I am the same as you are the same as we are the same as the drip-dropping rain.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC