"prepping" poems
My heart
is the sound of water swishing
at the bottom of a large jar.
My emotions
are soft and quiet, making ears strain
to hear them:
they are a small sigh leaving my body.
My soul is bread
left unattended in the oven.
And my body,
is a house visited
every so often,
by dinner guests bringing
smiles and light.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
You get the know it alls
Their noses stuck rigidly in books like bookmarks
You get the geeks
Gamers with eyes shrunk; shiny braces flashing
You get the quiet ones
Assessing everything going on; owlish blinks
You get the cheeky ones
Hilarious antics all around; always surprising
You get the nosy ones
With obnoxious questions and averting eyes
You get the prissy neat freaks
Panicking religiously over messes; loud moaner
You get the bossy buck tooth's
Spit spraying whilst barking out orders; drone-like
You get the wannabes
*Prepping up as the popular chicks; total **** ups*
And you get me
With total judgement and disdain evident
Making me a **classic ***** ; plastic
With her typical high school stereotypes
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
**"how can you be in bed so fast?
we just got home five minutes ago?"***
*You got girlie stuff to do babe.
unlock the front door,
thirty steps
to our bed.
maybe stop to basketball shoot
***** clothes into a swish
of the hamper's netting
or,
maybe not.
turn off the overhead left handed in
a single motion, a highlight video,
both left foot socks
hid in the snow boots,
outside the front door.
you understand.
my unseen
girlie stuff,
requires me in state of ******
while you be
prepping.
face washed, creamed,
hair n' tooth brushed,
other stuff,
unmentionable.
am doing
my thing...
my girlie stuff*
starting a
poem interruptus
my pre-Coitus exercise,
just a new love poem
conception,
initiated,
doing my thing,
waiting on you
primped n'pumped,
décolletage clad,
to give me that
girlie stuff
closing stanza
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
I pace around, adoring each flower.
I’m not nervous. I just have bipolar.
I’m tapping my fingers for ten hours.
I’m not restless. I just have bipolar.
I wake up four times during the nighttime.
My heartbeat flies out of my very chest.
Awake. It’s been hours since watching crime!
Alive. I begin prepping for a test.
My words bounce back around the four drywalls.
Like a child, thoughts scamper through my mind.
Abruptly I laugh. Then I start to bawl.
My emotions begin to intertwine.
I make mindless plans with seven people.
I say something out of pocket to Van.
Now I try to use a tattoo needle.
**** I just tossed and broke my only fan.
Mar 7, 2023
Mar 7, 2023 at 3:06 PM UTC
Jenifer Garner looked every inch the mom in control as she and estranged husband Ben Affleck picked up their daughters from karate class.
The actress, 43, strode out ahead clutching her cell phone in one hand and car keys in her other as the Argo star, also 43, followed behind with Violet, nine, and Seraphina, six, and carrying a canvas shopping bag.
Garner also had her wedding ring back on, but on the middle finger of her left hand and not the ring finger.
Affleck, though, seems to have ditched his wedding ring altogether.
He hasn't been seen with it on for a couple of weeks at least, although when they first split the pair had made it known they'd still keep the gold bands on around their kids.
Rumors had started to swirl of a possible reconciliation between the two after they were seen leaving couples counseling together in Sana Monica on September 4.
But sources close to them moved quickly to quash any suggestion they might get back together, saying they were simply seeking professional help to guide them through the changes that divorce brings.
Affleck was a doting dad on Friday as he smilingly shepherded his daughters to the car as they snacked on apples.
The Good Will Hunting actor was dressed casually in an olive green t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.
Seraphina wore a pretty light blue pinafore dress with a matching hairband and her favorite purple and pink Nike trainers.
Violet wore an all black workout ensemble with turquoise athletic shoes.
Not with them was the girls' younger brother Samuel, who's three.
The estranged couple are back in LA after Garner spent most of the summer filming Miracles From Heaven in Atlanta, Georgia, and Affleck was reprising his role as Batman for Suicide Squad in Toronoto, Canada.
With those projects in the can, it means they can focus more time on caring for their children as their divorce moves forward.
Affleck is also prepping his next project Live By Night, a Prohibition-era drama that he's written and plans to star in and direct.
The film based on the novel by Denis Lehane and set in Boston is scheduled to start filming in November.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/sexy-formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
To transition is to attend your own funeral time and time again in hopes of allowing yourself the delicacy of being truly known
Identity becomes a public affair and day to day life reads like a eulogy
Imagine you are the corpse, the coffin, and the church your body rests in
You haven't lost yourself just, killed that version and put her inside a box for only her dearly beloved to see
You now become the house in which they’re prepping her body for eternal sleep
You are the final destination
The one stop shop for little girls who become boys overnight
I became him over night and the next morning i wrote her eulogy
Its been almost five years since girl became boy and i am still giving her eulogy
I am speaking of a little girl to people that only know the grown man she died to be and i am so incredibly tired of doing so
I see family and the remnants of the little girl i was believed to be and i am forced to take part in their mourning
Every day feels like the day after you lose someone you loved
There are bits and pieces of her around my house, and my mind, and even my body but she is gone
She has been gone for almost five years and i am still attending her funeral
There is no longer a corpse, coffin, and church just a man her memories rest in
I am the man her memories rest in yet i put her to rest long ago
I need the world to do the same, for my dearly beloved to do the same
For we are gathered here today not to mourn the loss of a daughter, a sister, or niece
We are here to celebrate the gaining of a son, a brother, and a nephew
I am celebrating the birth of me and giving her eulogy in the same breath and i am tired of doing so
See i am left carrying the grief of a person who still exists
I exist
Changed but still present, still breathing
There never was a corpse, a coffin, or a church
There was only ever me, my body, and the world around me
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 4:02 PM UTC
Her barefoot feels it again
For the third night in a row…
Something cold and fluid
On an even colder floor
As she raced to the kitchen
Prepping for the day ahead
She almost slips, she’s furious
But it’s not in her to curse.
Her mind is wrapped in issues
As she stares up at the ceiling
No signs of rain, no leakage
But how does the floor get wet?
She sips and smells her coffee
And steps into her slippers
She grabs a mop and bucket
And points two fingers in blame.
“Did Tom, my love, spill water?”
Not a chance, he’s too careful
Fastidious and disciplined,
He’d mop it before it spilled!
She’d lay the blame on Tracy
And presume that Tracy peed
But cats are not that messy
As Tracy’s three years had proved.
She starts to get too worried
But decides its not worth it
Once again, she lets it slide
For the third night in a row…
But less than an hour ago
He wakes up from a nightmare
Same nightmare that has plagued him
For the third night in a row…
He slides out of bed slowly
He watches her for a while
She sleeps in peace like a baby
Why can’t he sleep like her?
He sneaks out of their bedroom
To his newfound grieving spot
Three steps to the kitchen door
He falls apart in gloom
He’s in pain, pain unbearable!
Unlike anything he’s seen
After many years in the army
He’s been through thick and thin.
He relives the angst of confession
As he said those dreaded words
“Honey, I cheated on you.”
And shut his eyes for the BANG!
He’d hoped for fire and brimstone
And expected nothing less
But her reply was calm and casual
“I’ve known, and I forgive you.”
Shocked at her eerie response
He died a million times!
He watched for signs of withdrawal
And a possible divorce suit
But after years of waiting
He unforgives himself, and
For the third night in a row…
He cries himself to death!
© Raphael Uzor
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
poems for poems
she exposes her heart
she's afraid you'll use them to tear her a part
naked and no mask
all emotions raw
shes shown you all her fatal flaws
you know now
nothing goes up her skirt
you know the pain she feels inside it hurts
tears and tissues
have you ever met a girl this sad
she cries about the things she's never had
lost in wonder
she has no direction
all she wants is the feeling of affection
dreams prolonged
all she does is sleep
she hopes that she doesn't sink too deep
her mind is chaos
hidden beneath her crown
she wants to find someone who won't let her down
could it be you?
she asks but doubts
you'll probably just give her something to cry about
she's inconsistent
she has issues and gems
if you stay, you must learn to deal with them
though she knows
they all will leave and go
so don't you bother putting on a good show
different
that's what she hopes you are
but she isn't expecting that you two will go far
the cycle
it repeats it always does
she knows you'll leave just because
shes already prepping
to say goodbye
and to once again give love another try
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 6:38 AM UTC
Cause of such a weighty plight
yet worthy of each new bulge.
Prepping is most of the simple delight
to a confection so rarely indulged.
Thank God for "Sammy's Gym & Sauna!
Sweet Belgium chocolate, melted and
cooled to fingers delicate touch.
Spooned in a slow perfect dribble,
covering in a shroud of flowing sweetness
the perfectly rounded mound, centered upon my dish.
Hardening...encasing within my final sumptuous goal.
Fresh whipping cream, beaten to
frothy clouds of mouth watering heaven.
Newly roasted pistachios, shaved coconut,
and the final crowning glory.
Candied cherries adorning
the mounded delectable height.
Not one, not two, but a few.
Still not nearly enough
my conscience won't be bothered.
Gluttonous greed must be snuffed.
With self-dedicated glee
I make me another.
A couple more hours in the sauna tomorrow.
One final decoration...
for presentation's sake.
A newly budded rose
centered for my eye to behold.
My pleasure mostly done
I am ready to partake.
Mouth salivating,
taste buds anticipating,
I reach for my spoon.
Just as...
*Warming flesh...
Streams flow the valley of your breast...
Cherry cascading down a descending
river of melting cream...
A rolling boulder of passion's anticipation.
Tickling and enticing heated flesh.
It's cantering end at the pooling pit of your navel.*
My spoon is tossed away.
With luxurious sublimity
I dine from your hallowed plate.
My pleasure is most certainly won.
Yours, my tasty,
"Sunday Morning Delight"...
not nearly done, only just begun.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
It's two a.m. -
the bars just closed.
I sit, wrapped in a black hoodie
and wonder if the black ice
caught you by surprise this time
as his hand explored
your skirt
prepping his night cap.
Did you find another
brown haired, green eyed
mother ******
who reminds you
of our faded picture
stashed in your sock drawer?
I hope not.
Happy birthday.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
*It's 7:00 in the morning and the breeze is cold.
I let my feet walk into my little kitchens abode.
To boil some water from my cute little pan,
for my small kettle was broken and no more fun.
Prepping my stein for my early morning grind,
I call it coffbit's (Hobbit's Coffee) time in my old but cozy and lovely shire.
Some like it with sugar, toffee, mocha or milk,
but still I'd prefer it brewed cause it's classic and pretty bare.
Sipping it while sitting in front of my fireplace,
to start my day with full of goodness grace.
Coffbit seems a little bit odd and prime,
but I wouldn't call it a day without my hobbit's time.*
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
traffic trodden crab apples
and choke cherries
sluice the sidewalk
not one wasp observed
the wasps this year are found
not around human food or trash cans
( sugar drunk, bat angry or absurd )
this year they thrive around cut grass
and chippings from outdoor furniture finishing
with this appetite
what are they prepping for ?
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 9:44 PM UTC
in a cold room feeling real dark
in my element real far
most avoid monsters
i'm yelling; "where thee are"
in love with poetry that feeds the misfits
i cannot be near you
because if its the deadly things that scare you;
you should stay away from me.
please do not fall in love
don't attempt to save me too
i'd rather be lost, insane, out of my already fogged brain,
then found amongst the close minded crowd that think the same.
you think you're hurting my feelings but i'll just leave you to it
next thing you're hurting my feelings but you look **** when you do it
can't explain it,
you're unpredictable; unstable; unhealthy conscious.
imagine the damage in satisfaction.
you've been wandering around your mind
looking for answers; i've reached your check points
and i haven't found anything either
don't be afraid, i'm distant from myself too
it does not get better but you deal with it
finding comfort in pain, maybe
you're my one and only wanted fantasy that i've had the guts,
and urge to admit about.
lets take a ride on your spyder
and create memories which we both know will not be remembered
but i know you'd be cool with prepping the trigger for me
because giving me the power to destroy you isn't what scares you...
losing me
is what scares you
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
It's a beautiful ***
But wouldn't it benefit from some green?
I reckon you better start prepping that soil,
Because we're going to plant a tea tree!
Imagine how wonderful that would be,
Blossoming white flowers, a warm cup and bees.
Oh, imagine a garden full of bumble bees!
Buzzing about the perfect petals,
Pouring pollen into the breeze.
If only we had a garden,
We could sit and lunch,
Pastry, cheese, and the sweet drink from our tree!
Darling, while your out buying seed,
Would you grab a few more pots?
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 10:28 AM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
The day begins before it should,
and every minute is squandered,
before I jump into the car,
spilling hot coffee in my haste.
Then the rushing wind blows past me,
running through my hair in the dark;
headlights keep up with the sharp turns,
and the thumping stereo lifts me.
Parking, on time, walking briskly
to ensure the grandest entrance
to give a formal impression.
My echoed greeting meets my ears.
Hello, goodbye, I take over,
holding my vigilant station
as I toast bagels with butter
and wait for them to call me up.
"Ashley!" comes the petulant cry
and I manage to answer her.
"Coming!" And I take a slow sip
before heading up creaky stairs.
They want me to pick out their clothes.
They want me to help them get dressed.
I say, "You can do that yourself,
I'm here to do hard things, like cook."
Teasing, admonishing, waiting
for children to do what I asked;
I take one more sip of coffee
and the cup is gone far too soon.
Soon, they are eating their breakfast,
and I'm prepping backpacks and coats.
Something spills, and I clean it up;
then she says she forgot her shoes.
I tell her sister to get them,
but she won't go up there alone.
So we three climb the creaky stairs,
and come back with their socks and shoes.
We run out the door, lock the garage,
and jump in my car for a ride.
"Seatbelts?" I ask before leaving,
and they both ask me for tic-tacs.
A minute away, and I park.
They jump out and both wave goodbye.
I smile and wait for the school bus.
I drive to my next job, next door.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt.2
And so it goes...
The good mandelver, was given two,
caskets to measure his feelings to...
the undertaker sat, while the artist was gone...
pulled a flask of whiskey out.. and,
sang himself a song.
When he stood up,
to look 'pon the corpses
he found his flask missing...
he fussed and cursed, what's worse is;
that there stood a man, in such deathly groom,
he stood in the corner-centre, of the prepping the room...
There stood a man who'd sung along,
whose eyes indeed were really on...
"Off with the willows and off with the bloom,"
he said..
off with the cherry too, and off with the tune...
Come ol' Merry merry mate, come and sing along,
for when you bring the caskets make,
sure to sing a song.
One for the lock-it ring,
one for the key.
Another song to whistle to,
and a song to rid of me...
What's wrong you old drunken ****
All pale and wet! O' gee...
the cat's gotten your tongue, I hope!
You dare not mess with me!"
A.r. Bazian
Feb 19th, 2016
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.
the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on
planning, prepping, late night stressing
then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******** in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter
and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away
no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no, you be the one to corner the beast.
no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty
please, please show me the door.....
not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more
but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.
the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.
November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***
last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb
yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
black candles are lined up like precious dark brides
their haunted bouquets of roses dimly light our staggered place
I fill you, like the body fills the coffin. you sweat perfectly content.
I taste your pain beneath my tongue like the thorns of the roses you.purge.
your eyes eat away at my flesh as I wither away
like the weakest human that has ever existed
the chandelier sways directly above my head. my neck is curved.
my veins thud and lay nakedly exposed against my throbbing body
I rest my hand at the bottom of my stomach and push.thats your command.
like vampires in love I set the white flag against your dreary eyes
and watch the exorcism unravel
your burgundy Lilith sings her saddest songs to me as. I breathe naked.
I have become a fiend of this aura we make. that pulsates like static.
you smell of earth, and wrap around me like a snake prepping its prey
what has become of the outside world, I think to myself
what has become of buses.cars. business.government. and mainstream
it has all been dissolved between our two separate skeletons
mummified reminiscent. I leak at the bottom of your mouth
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:12 AM UTC
there’s a portion of my jaw
that’s been decaying for a while
but my dentist said it’s nothing
so I’m living in denial
of the costly surgery to come
if I can even swing it
I’m rotting
I’m rotten
counting on tools
that I sabotage daily
to harness an energy
I can’t generate,
so often,
too often -
I’m looking at the cost of a coffin
instead of getting prepped
for a day in the life
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 11:55 AM UTC
Adulthood daunting, calling, taunting.
Empty applications haunting.
Heartbeat thudding in my chest,
Through one more standardized test.
Fear ascending, never-ending.
Transcripts somehow aren't sending.
Catch me dangling off the edge,
Scrambling, I can't feel my legs.
Time interfering, disappearing,
Ground beneath my feet, commandeering.
Lungs burning, filling with water.
Panic prepping me for slaughter.
Indecision, like a prison.
One path splintered by division.
College here, or college there,
Growing up is a nightmare.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
I sighed.
I only wanted to sit down and resign myself to never thinking twice about you again,
You've buried yourself in my rib cage, rooted yourself in the compacted red clay surrounding my bicuspid valve.
(People like you always need a challenge, digging around with blemished, infectious hands)
You brought back weathered leather filled with emotions ancient playwrights would be horrified by
Especially alone, in the dark
Making trip after trip, til there were trenches through my soft tissue, (preparing for a stand off; prepping for a war)
Do you know what you're capable of?
How the only moments of silence I have are standing in the hot steam of a barely resolved shower, patting my face dry while exhaling the parts of me that crave your tongue?
How thoughts of you are treacherous mountain hikes into a no man's land?
How your name on my lips is a torrential downpour of what ifs.
Cigarette stoops used to be my safe haven,
now they are shoddy trips through chicken-wire memories,
that claw through my skin and seep gray flesh through exposed punctures.
(In the mirror, my scars talk to one another, gossiping about your bad boy image)
People ask "who is this"- "I need to know what this is about"
but I have no room for apologies about the things that I will never know
I never knew you.
Only the mysterious road maps you left on my body while heading South for the winter.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
It's two a.m.
and a distant siren
bellows through the flurries.
The bars just closed.
I sit, wrapped in the hoodie
you gave me years ago
wondering if the black ice
caught you by surprise
while his hand
was up your skirt
prepping his night cap.
Did you find another
brown hair, green eyed
mother ******
who reminds you
of that faded picture
stashed in your sock drawer?
I hope it wasn't you
the siren sings for tonight.
Happy Birthday.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Thanksgiving Day,
The day of the giving of thanks.
Also known as a public holiday,
When everyone gets together.
Yet, it is unfair that,
Like everyone else,
Her eyes cannot meet his,
His arms cannot hold her,
They cannot dine in laughter,
Across 8,000 miles on such day.
Still, on this day,
She is thankful –
Thankful for who he is,
Thankful for who he is not,
Thankful for what they are,
Thankful for what they are not,
Thankful that they still ARE.
For now,
They cannot spend
Even a single hour of the day
In one another’s company.
But, she looks beyond
What cannot be shared today.
For one day,
They will leap across time
And all the miles in between
To land in each other’s arms
For many Thanksgivings to come.
Hasty groceries,
Annoying prepping,
Crowded kitchen,
Noisy children,
Frustrated guests,
Fattening bellies,
Drunken dance,
Disorderly house,
Sleepy mumbling –
WE will get to all of that.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC