"plunked" poems
Out of everything I saw, I remember
the thumb.
Swollen and lopsided.
There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green,
commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile.
And the nail. What a healthy nail.
A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling.
Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches.
A drawerful of button-ups.
Pockets of heads and tails.
You can do it, Grandma.
One, two.
Heads, tails.
Up, down.
Up for braid, down for bun.
Braid? Yes. Braid.
And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain.
The braidee now braiding. The baby,
aging.
Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors.
But you have me.
And I have this thumb,
hidden under mine.
I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome.
I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw.
From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage.
White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield.
I’ll hide it away.
Intermission.
Hush now.
Quiet, you. The show is not yet done.
And ****** it won’t be. Not with this thumb.
Not on my time.
I bite it.
At you. Skyward you.
Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new.
A blank belated card, lost in the mail.
What it might have said,
had I left a forwarding address.
But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern.
Tucked away, safely in lines.
Those of the palm.
Of tree rings.
Of love songs, and
Pretty things.
Lines, like wires
red, green, and blue.
They bring me closer
And closer
To the thumb.
Fat, with shiny aged skin,
stretched new.
And suddenly, I’m
Old.
Numb along one side.
Useless and dumb.
A limp puppet
plunked down
during intermission.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
some of those thin moths are snowblind
enchanted by cheap tricks, trickling for magicians
past their prime.
four wings, naked lunch
moonbeams
long time.
the universe is unlatched
and just fine.
you come from nowhere
and go over there
all the time.
your eyes, some
remarkable placid
rancid with
naive.
plunked into an anagram
of our first kiss
disregardless
the Cerberus
you doubt
with.
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
Chi sono io?
My i strayed from its o
(divorziato)
decades before the ***** and egg had wed,
hatching me to a self-soaking
tub where the immigrant
pigments of Ermano e Rosa
were twice removed.
*Quando dormo
gli antenati stanno sempre
sussurando indicazioni*
Rosa e Ermano each descend
(spaesato)
on separate planks plunked down to greasy
rock by proverbial boats.
When they do, Emma Lazarus doesn't
warn them the Lady's "give me"
comes with a take.
*Provo a sentire
le due parole dolci
ma non posso*
Ermano e Rosa each find
(inamorato)
American spouses, have American kids
who sprout to twist a native tongue
till an ill-fit, its tang is
left in must and un-dusted
just for periodic trips back.
*Ripeto, Chi sono io?
E nel questo sogno
i voci mi dicono di nuovo...*
Let's skip the unplugged generation's gap
(collegato)
to where my i reacquaints with its o,
but their made-up past makes
a tenuous tether, so together
Rosa e Ermano drift on
the whispers of a forgotten song.
Non dimenticar
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
So there.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMVI)
Yes, fire. We plunked down on the fur rug thence
Afore her fireplace, and I in betrayl
Neglected to erm, lose me on its hale
And licking flames, e'en that romance' pretense
Was blind to--wherefore? Sandwiched for intents
Twixt two guy friends, I was too dull t'avail
Me even there, yea lost myself in pale
'Scuse in auld lines to Nigel, like's good sense.
Now Sunday watches diesel trucks roar fer
Sweet hours through lonesome country roads 'neath blue
Skies nary cloud is but a ghost in, poor
As saying. I told a friend I'm as a melon you
Cleaned out, sans Mum, and what as twere
Is left? LORD, give me Thy fruit. And kids too?
11Mar18b
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
He got up onstage lookin’ like somebody’d torn him out of a National Geographic special on the Amish, plunked ‘im down in Eugene for a decade where he quickly realized he didn’t have to change much to get along quite alright here.
this is a song ya know I played it here 23 years ago just right over there on that side of the room and ya know my partner and I played it here and I couldn’t write songs then and he could and I was a little bit down in the dumps about myself about it but then I moved on and ya know my partner left here not long after that got caught up in that hitchhiking business and then got tangled up with the mental hospital and now he’s forced to take antipsychotic drugs every day for a time he was known as the second most dangerous schizophrenic in the state of Oregon but ya know he was also probably the second most gentle person in the state of Oregon cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way and ya know his songs were gentle too like this one for example this one is real gentle
ya know he was really a gentle player and now he’s caught up on those antipsychotics and its all my fault cause I drank a bunch of *****
Hot Tub Jeff looked straight outta National Geographic but when he sat down he pulled out a phone and the screen glowed bright on his face bringing out all the creases that had been hidden in room’s putty atmosphere, cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
We were both in dance class,
all I did was stare at your ***
while I plunked on the piano.
I was such a dweeb back then,
actually I still kind of am,
but I felt like I had no
chance with you.
But here I am today
with no women in my way
my roommates were still my wingmen.
Apparently you thought I was cute,
in your spandex you felt like a ******
and were to afraid to give me your number then.
Today is my final chance
to see if we can make this last
and let me take you out.
You look great in your summer dress
I'm in my Sunday best just so I
can find what you're all about.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
A cigarette
sitting in a cliche orange prescription bottle
the tobacco-stuffed tip
peaking out half an inch from the top
on it
scrawled in black ink:
miluji tě
it's author,
gone for a week and a half in a rehab center
left that morning with wet hair from the shower
long black tights around her legs
and a huge hiking bag which consumed the back of her figure
as she was walking out the door.
i imagine she wrote these words in her mother tongue
after she rolled the cigarette herself
to her boyfriend
a Texan
depressed, anxious, lost
then plunked it into the small bottle
which bore her name on its label
into the flourescently orange plastic,
symbolic of her dependency, of
the missing pieces
a flower in a vase:
miluji tě
and then she was ready to go
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
when i found out you were going to be a father,
everything inside me went flat and grey and
i spent the next five minutes remembering how to breathe.
it shouldn't have surprised me,
but i guess something in me just hoped
that no one would ever choose to procreate with you.
lord knows i wouldn't even trust you with a cat.
when i found out you were going to be a father,
some dark heavy seed plunked into my chest
and sank straight to the bottom.
i saw the announcement and immediately
i could taste in the back of my throat
the way you called me baby,
acidic and cloying and sticky.
it burned hot and sharp through my lungs
like every word of every promise i remember you forgetting.
the news hit me with a power you yourself have not had in years.
you are going to be a father,
and since the moment i found out,
i have been whispering desperate prayers to the universe
that you never have a little girl.
i think about your greedy hands brushing curls
from some soft little angel face,
and i feel sick.
i think about you picking up her pretty little-girl things,
little socks and bows and shoes and toys,
and it takes everything in me just to sit here and breathe.
will you sing her the songs i used to sing you
in my own pretty little-girl voice?
will you hear me in her cheeky turns of phrase
or when she cries into her pillow
late at night when she thinks you're asleep?
what if she's precocious,
like me?
what if her prepubescent body starts to carve itself
into the shape of a woman's?
will it be easier to remember that a child is still a child
when you watched her grow yourself?
if she picks out tight shirts and short skirts
and paints her eyes dark and her lips red,
and she walks and talks and moves like a woman,
will you remember that she is not?
maybe if she is your daughter,
it will be different,
but then again i think being your anything
can never be anything but trouble for a little girl.
i should know.
i hope more than anything that you never have a daughter,
because i know if you do,
i will never stop wondering.
i know that the questions will keep me awake at night
for the rest of my life.
i will will never stop worrying that it is
at least a little bit
my fault.
when i found out you were going to be a father,
i remembered
everything.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
May 13, 2016
1:00 a.m.
"Grasping for straws, again!" It's amazing to me, that when we start aproaching my age, how we start reflecting on events that, at the time of their occurence, were not important. Case in point:
Lubbock, Texas, September, 1953, if memory serves. During that time local television stations, at noon, always had a 15 minute newscast, followed by another 15 minutes of "public service programing, featuring upcoming events in the surrounding communities. This time of year, it was always the "South Plains Fair."
My brother, Bill, and I belonged to a volunteer service group that was scheduled to appear on such a program aptly titled "Hospitality Time." Also scheduled was a country western band that was to perform at the fair. I can't recall the name other than they were associated with a circuit called "The Louisiana Hayride", similar to the "Grand 'ol Opry", both very popular on the radio, you do remember 'radio', don't you?"
Prior to the telecast, we got into a conversation with one of the musicians, who 'plunked' on his guitar while waiting for their call.He turned out to be the lead singer. Not being a country music fan, I didn't pay much attention to them, after all, it was "just for the Fair." After they finished and were leaving, he turned to my brother and me, and said, "nice to meet you." It wasn't until a couple of years later, when I realized that we had met, and talked with, Elvis Presley.
copyright: richard riddle: 05-13-2016
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
Chapter Two -poem-Neva Flores
Sometimes I get tired of having so little time
and plainly seeing my surroundings
crying out before the scent of dawn
has bloomed.
Can a single cloud breathe in
all of the warm air
that hails my universe,
removing all reason to wake up,
live life and resume?
I look at fleeing ships
whose sails are full of thunder
and I hear a song
dissolving the wildest parts of me.
Each note dances in the breeze
dropping its own melody
inside my heart
until it becomes the only thing
I hear inside my soul
and I struggle to even
breathe.
I was a cabin boy on a tallmasted ship.In the Straits of Gibraltor.Yes they did not know I was female but that was my well kept secret.one does have to survive in this world and by hook or crook I planned on doing just that.my name is Samuel.well really Samantha..been called Sam a while so the transition /switch to samuel was fairly easy.I figure Im close to 8yrs, maybe 9 and I'm scrawny and quick.Business was done in cramped quarters so no-one was the wiser.My best friend was Joque, he kinda wanted a son I reckon, he was partial to Me and gave Me the easy work and fed Me all the time..you know the fresh stuff so I wasn't inclined to scurvy..apples whens theys were here...oranges and salt in rations he kinda shared with me.Odd how I was found at sea and in the middle of nowheres they say..just like I was plunked down in the ocean like a drowning rat , lucky it was in front of the HMS Frigate Triumph..not much to see but it was dryer than I had seen in a while...anyways Joque fished me out and dryed Me up ..said he'd never seen a boy with that much hair.so a hair cut was in order...threw me some dry clothes that dinna smell like stinky fish and here I were.
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© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
We see things that other females
don’t pay a tuppence to.
Like a half-burned cigarette tail,
Your osculation of deep, dense rouge—
A secret trusted only by two.
With our own hands, we mimic time
And manipulate the world you once knew.
Falling in love with a writer is a faulty design.
To your heart, we assail
With words plunked to a tune;
In your soul, with great force, we impale.
From a love-front angle of view
You might feel a tad misconstrued,
like a poorly mixed cocktail.
Ricochet from baseline to fault line,
But every time you pull through ‘cause you knew,
That falling in love with a writer is a broken design.
When we close our eyes and slowly inhale;
We hear the laughter of a family in an empty room
And unveil the retold, recycled tales.
Picturing why the dust rests less heavily on one broom,
And can smell the meal Ma cooked when they came home from school.
From the underworld and past the skyline,
We scour everything down to its last detail.
Falling in love with a writer is a grueling design.
To us, your eyes flourish like flowers in June
With lips– silky like cabernet wine.
And although sometimes we forget to say we love you,
Remember that falling in love with a writer can be a beautiful design.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 7:17 PM UTC
cheap beer,
hand-rolled cigarettes,
crisp air slicing the night,
the divide crumbles beneath the beastly black ball
plunked into a crook.
gentle expressions liberated
from an
anchored breeze
as minds intertwine under the
beaming orb of night.
bedrock activities in conjunction with
still, articulating hearts
mimic
an innocent jubilee
that only morning knows of its arrangement.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Standing on the frozen lake
Build on my mistakes
Or situations that life plunked on me
Unbearable to take
And look on these spikes
Of grief as frozen ice
That filled the land of heart
Until I cry
Until I cry
[Your heart is size of fist
And if you hold tears in it
They get compress and compress
And make the frozen lake]
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 2:02 AM UTC
hum...habit...hic...abbott woozy
celebrating with British Royal Family
and...hub bout red dee
to take a snoozy
sup...par'n...this poet
fur...hib bit..bing a lil oozy.
Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare,
would crush with might
but lo…just then zee spouse
plunked herself
with unconsciousness deep
unable to recapture pleasant dreams
well nigh past day light.
So...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry birds
the idea arose to attempt poem
to express discombobulated state
whereby grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest will clear muddled pate
thick with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis with forming words
that follow rhyming pattern
to convey mood = to a synonym for turds.
respite from a cat nap as tonic no lion here
can spell relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes a berserk manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this scrivener
caught by men in white coats
strait jacketing this maniac
in tattered under wear
whose ***** by the way
oh about the size of an average palm
yet taut for witnessing
deux score plus eighteen mortal year.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Aunties and their daughters
pay a fortune to see the hills
burning fuel on roads
carved out of rock
they talk of the crisp mountain breeze
plunked down in AC cars
they point at tea gardens green
through thick sheets of tinted glass
"Look there, a lonely hut
amidst the greens the only hut,
what a lovely place to live!
Dressed in straw, bathed in sunlight,
ringed with only rows of tea.
Mother, I want a house like that,
oh what a lovely place to live!"
Somewhere inside the lonely hut
sat weeping a young lonely girl
cussing at the straw, at the
scathing sunlight and at the
endless rows of tea.
As she plucked leaves warily that noon,
a snake slithered to her feet
but only the trees heard her wail
only the breeze cupped her face.
Even at an age of eighteen
she would not admit
what a lovely place to live!
was her ugly lonely hut.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
whilst deep in sleep
this past night
what felt like galactic body fell
upon this slumbering your eye ya heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare would crush with might
but lo…just thee spouse
plunked herself with unconsciousness deep
unable to recapture pleasant dreams
well nigh past day light.
rather than emit shrieks
like some angry birds
the idea arose to attempt poem
to express discombobulated state
whereby grey matter
feels similar to thick whey curds
palliative restorative power
per rest will clear muddled pate
thick with grogginess and marauding herds
of zombie mailer daemons
worse than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis with forming words
that follow rhyming pattern
to convey mood = to a synonym for turds.
respite from a cat nap as tonic no lion here
can spell relief and serve as balm
with pillow as temptress ever so near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes on a berserk manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside block head of this veer
really caught by men in white coats
strait jacketing maniac in tattered under wear
whose ***** by the way oh
about the size of an average palm
yet taut for witnessing
deux score plus nineteen mortal year.
[email protected]
alias: matthew scott harris
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
he started the banjo man did plinkin'
amid the heavy drag of a slow cool
bass harmony strung out on a long low note,
it sounded like nails on a chalkboard at first
or a cat in heat mewing loud in the alley
and crescendoed into a full blown
attack on my sanity my notions
as he plunked away and chorded a falsetto guitar note
like eric clapton playing a ukelele
drugged out the clanking E
called out a G
then faster he took me as the bass fought to accompany
along an a fast tweedling dee
and a C that cried liked birds
and the blues fans applauded the folk singers sat agape the rock singers sang Hallejuah
and the minstrels swayed
so many fast
f'ing F's G's B's flats and concordances
it was like a thousand harps from heaven turned loose in fast forward
and I ****** him
**** banjo man
that was good
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
It took a long time for me to believe in trust again because it had been broken so many times.
It took a long time to believe in love again after it had been maniacally ripped apart.
Despite that, someone made me believe,
And then, now, here I am broken all over again.
I found myself believing every word that plunked from those lips
And I fell for them .
When sentences string from mouths , I don’t believe any of the explanations now.
I don’t process the one-sided quickly spoken monologues anymore.
It hurts to look back on the past and see the slow shifts where I couldn’t before.
It’s even harder to look into the future and see where I won’t fit in,
But it looks like it’s time to change again.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 5:29 PM UTC