"putter" poems
Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".
A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.
Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.
Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.
Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.
A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.
But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?
What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?
Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.
Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***
Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.
Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.
Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.
Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.
Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.
What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Can we putter away
a hundred and more days
when all we ever wanted
is to be found at last
in this totally murky space?
Do we regret the hours
we spent together
savoring the words
that don't even matter
to anyone, anyhow
locked up hands
among the naughty crowd?
Shall we toss these letters
out our blood-stained windows
and wished for something
that hadn't caused us jitters
like a genuine touch
from a mother that really cares
but 'twas all lust
we just gave in to our fears?
How do I hate what I didn't mean to love?
Must have been wise enough to know
I could've written a better show
Just that mad to have been carried away
by your love that only crossed my way
unfortunately,
half a day.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
The tennis player could not be heard above the racket.
The snooker player was so tired of all the cues.
The shot putter threw away all his chances to win.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
In the small hours of the morning,
Over the putter patter of rain,
There is a girl who hears them speak ,
And gladly does refrain.
She could not see what the world saw,
She sees not in black and white,
But in a vibrant vivid shade,
Radiating with light.
Music was her therapist,
The baseline was her friend,
And the chorus was a fantastic day,
You didn't want to end.
Because even on the coldest nights,
Music was always there,
And even in this mad mad world,
Music was always fair.
It was there from start to finish,
To when the day was done,
Through sleet, snow and wind,
Or on a dazzling island in the sun.
And as this girl continues,
But does not know what to say,
She can just sigh and know,
It is time to press play.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
The diminutive seedling,
It putters whilst growing
Becoming a robust bark but with decaying leaves
Life then begins to sprout and weaves
We are the seedling, planted in this very soil we stand
We were the sprout of yesterday
But in time shall be tomorrow’s shade
We must be mature but not staid
We then putter over the early years
Ignorance and dreams then arouses
We then become filled with ambitions and fears
Our bodies are then trained
In conditions with heavy winds and rain
Like the bark, resilient and vigorous
Autumn then comes
Leaves begin to fall and wither
Like our worries are untethered
Yet of all, we must not truncate our branches
We must embellish them instead
We must be strong like the Hemlock!
Winter then follows both the sky and land
Becomes tedious and bland
Problems then arises but shrouded in the mist
Hazy, vague only to catch a glimpse
But warm tears can melt through
The cold and burdened shoulder,
The storm settles and clouds become mild
The vernal breeze then calms our mind
As we continue to grow,
We find ourselves dazed and entwined
Nonetheless we cannot putter for we are a Hemlock!
We stand tall, and keep our roots intact
Summer comes forth, with warmth and life
Radiance into the leaves,
Free birds that chirp with ease
Our leaves which are crammed with wisdom
Our cones that tells our story
Our barks that had endured the calamity
Our roots that stayed firm regardless the intensity
We had all the fun, laughs and sorrow
We were sprouts but it is our time to sow
We are the young and into the hemlock we shall grow!
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
I live my life
for the jolts and tingles
the prickling of skin
and the involuntary wrinkles
I live my life
for instances of bliss and euphoria
the experiences that floor ya
for the moments of clarity
when I make plans with sincerity
whether or not accomplishment,
may indeed be a rarity
I live my life
for the sensular shudder
of the feminine other
for the flashing and thrashing
and skin-tingling flutter
for those shots to be made
without use of a putter
I live my life
for new connections and epiphanies
for misdirections and the mysteries
for all the questions without answers
like, why does life give you cancer?
according to the state of california.
I live my life
through a miasma of sidewalks
and ticking clocks
through drunken walks
and forgotten talks
for the chance of a Win
and the inevitable balks
I live my life
sometimes for him or for her
in sin or while pure
and without hope of a cure
for the human condition
"the human condition?"
you know, when the world says,
"assume the position!"
and your teacher says
"are you even listenin'?"
I live my life
for zoning out and finding Rules to flout
for the workings of my mind
the ability to rewind
analyze the times
and uncover the blinds
I live my life
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
Man Card
You must know that all men have one
That we use when we're in need
I would take mine out and show you
If I thought you would believe
I always have mine with me
But its hardly ever used
Unless I think I need it
When im shopping for new shoes
I will pull it out and wonder
If you will ever think its real
For you saw me walking fifi
My toy poodle with no tail
Now I know I'll have to show it
If ever I am found
Outside planting flowers
When college football comes around
My scooters not a harley
Every real man knows that sound
It wispers where's your man card
As I putter around this town
I have had it for so very long
But now my man card cant be found
I know I dont deserve it
With this pink shirt I wear now
I'm not worried I lost my man card
For there are plenty to be found
All married men have lost one
For not putting those tampons down
Carl J. Roberts
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
It all started with an urge to go to the movie theater
PTA's "The Master"
It was a 35 minute walk to the nearest cinema in Brooklyn
Nighthawks is what it was called
1:10pm, 4:10pm, 6:10pm, 10:10pm, the show times
Since I woke up at 12:45am, 1:10pm was out of the question
4:10pm seemed plausible but when the clock rolled around I was still puttering around the house
I could putter no more by 6:00pm and flew the cooped up den
The air, brisk and crisp
Time fell back
Women's heels clap the sidewalk in applause
All for the autumn on a Sunday frozen in time
I arrive, show sold out
I walk across the Williamsburg bridge, why not?
First theater in Manhattan I see turned out to be live art
So I turned out and left
Manhattans alive while Brooklyn slumbers
I dart down Clinton St toward the old Avenues
November, I could go without the cold weather, but I love the seasons
Pumpkin lattes **** my wallet dry like lesions
Soon I'm walking down 2nd Av, feeling familiar with my surroundings
Funny, feeling familiar, in a city I thought I'd never know, (you'll never know if you don't go)
Got some dollar pizza on St Marks
Followed by a dollar falafel, which tasted awful, (now I know why it was a dollar)
I walked in circles around Union Square, in union with everyone there
Happy that my feet were to the street, where they belong
Freezing, frozen, frigid, shakin' in my britches
Wrapped around my neck a borrowed scarf
Bumping into people, "I'd like to get by now", like Garth
(keep moving, you'll find what you want to find)
In big bright neon light at Village Cinema
"The Master"
(In 70mm)
Huh, 70mm, "Cool", I thought
The theater, empty as a loners funeral
I was the only one there, red velvet lined seats
I missed Halloween
Maybe this is my treat
The world is beautiful
This city is mine,
All I had to do
Was leave my old one behind
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
A rapturous delight
I breathed you in as you seduced
My thoughts. You unlocked my mind
Then freed my soul.
My heart burst into
Ecstasy. You had me strung from
the way
You moved inside of me.
Every thought of
You and I; Every thought of you and I together being free.
getting lost inside
Of each other would make my heart
Putter. Every night I close my eyes
and Feel you
inside of me. Moving deeper and
Deeper and deeper.
Tasting your thoughts.
Sensing your touches. Craving what we were destined to create; a rapturous delight.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
This sleep does not suit me,
this sleep without youth.
Heavy lids and heavy lies the body but
my mind takes shape reminiscent of
waves and the mermaid fins, dreams of
glittering beaches to wake up sweating
mid-winter.
Why is it that I putter and sink into crevices deep, still?
Why is it that I cannot share the moon? Her piercing
brilliance has endured eons alone, and
I feel a comrade in her shivering ripples.
This sleep, my darling,
I will not allow it.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
There was a particularly nasty looking garden spider
Crawling up the cracked molding of my window
Not that he looked particularly nasty compared to other spiders
In fact, up close, spiders are one of the wisest looking creatures that exist
But I don't have eight eyes like the garden spider
So I can't see that without the help of a camera lens
So to me, he just looked
Nasty
Buzzing from behind my curtain
A particularly nasty looking yellow jacket
Landed next to the spider
I didn't need a camera lens
Close up or far away
Some things are just
Evil
The spider must have sensed this too
With a leap
He grappled the wasp
And they tumbled
Buzzing
To my uneven hardwood floor
Landing with a small
Distinct plink
And I stood over them
While they tussled
As I have stood over a million things
Watching with glazed indifference
While creatures purer in their existence than I
Fought for their lives
I could see that the spider was doing poorly
The yellow jacket was giving it to him in the abdomen
Jamming his stinger in and pulling it out and jamming it in again
Until the spider started leaking white and green
And started fighting less and less
The yellow jacket
Smugly victorious
Save one crippled wing
Started to putter away
But I brought a rolled up newspaper down on the both of them
Like a pillar falling from the front of some great Roman temple
When the Gauls sacked it
Retracting the paper
They had both been reduced to wet smudges
I felt bad for killing the spider
I wish I could have trapped him in cup with a card over the top
And placed him outside on a leaf in the garden
So he could rule where he was meant to
But I considered it an act of mercy
I couldn't stand to see a noble being end like that
And you should always ***** out evil
If you have an opening
I sat back on my bed
Considering it a wash
A bit of beauty for a bit of order
As it has always been
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Half-moons turn to full as my eyes flutter open
The white hot light is disorienting.
My fingernails are the first thing I notice
They’re clean.
Clean has been distant for months.
My hair is combed and cut
And I’m all wrapped up in ivory.
But they forgot to bandage my memory.
It’s still oozing and crusted with sickening pain.
And I can remember their cries and angelic faces still.
And then they turned empty,
Like those grown-ups who used to putter around on Mondays.
At least they’ve got hunger for life now.
And as these trailing thoughts leave my mind,
I remember that I’m not alone.
Not all was lost after that apocalyptic crisis,
Where all I’ve ever known turned to a rotting, dead end.
His face will be forever embedded in my mind.
He and I made it out.
We were plucked out of the ground like two white roses in a field of weeds.
Saved like two animals for Noah’s Ark.
We, are all that’s left of origin,
All that’s left of our kind.
So before it was too late,
They rescued our scorned skins.
And we flew up into that blue sky,
And we just left them there.
We left that fair skinned freckled boy,
That lanky knobby kneed kid,
And that dark haired round eyed little girl,
We left everyone that ever was.
God.
I wish there was.
He’d breathe us in and never let go.
Never let those demons touch us.
Never let them sink their rotted teeth into her tiny neck.
Those *******
Limping around seeking blood,
Looking for lives to demolish.
If you’re reading this now
I hope you’re not running from rotted versions of your friends,
I hope you’re sitting at home on your plush pillowed sofas
Puttering around on Mondays.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades
winding the wings of the key.
She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.
The wooden bench shrinks,
her lips begin to part and let out
balmy breath of steam
a smog that fogs his glasses.
She’s wound and bound to kiss him.
He wants this, too.
His engine begins to putter
as he begins to pucker.
Their cold lips meet,
and while an explosion in her core smolders,
he feels like a machine,
running through the motions,
trying to produce magic,
but feeling artificial.
A bolt must be *******
a wire out of place,
something is jamming his gears,
a rhythm out of beat.
He should feel alive.
He should want this.
He should want this.
Its just animatronics.
Aren’t men built to love women?
He pushes her face off his.
Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate,
while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black
like oil streaking her face.
He’s sorry.
He’s so sorry.
He hurt her.
He hurt a friend.
Wind so white fills the distance between them
His wet hands grab her red mittens,
but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches
and puts them back inside her cage,
safe in her black pocket,
and walks away, leaking,
busted and broken.
White erases her.
He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.
A dent has shattered his almost love,
and a first kiss he wished he missed.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
The American Cremation society
Is offering 'hot deals'” this week.
We get pitches for Pfizer's ******
by snail mail, on Facebook, by Tweet.
Brochures for an all senior residence
litter our nightstand these days.
There silver haired ladies and gentlemen
pop pills for their nightly forays.
There are bankruptcy ads on the radio
to help manage credit card debt.
There are pill ads to help me remember
what drink used to help me forget.
The cars that they hawk to us seniors
Are designed to just putter around
Not for me Candy apple red Corvettes
To race about with the top down..
I’m stuck in the prune demographic
Where ensure and ex lax abound.
I still have my own teeth, and don’t need drugs to sleep,
But my Glasses have yet to be found…..
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
The drive home begins with the Smiths
And ends with the Pixies.
I merge onto punitive pessimism
Heading north
Of an unfed need
Starvation, climbing with mileage
I switch lanes
Into loneliness
And putter up through
The Snoqualmie pass
The ceremonial point
Where I disown one contempt
To adopt another
From west to east
From mountainous mercy
To a pathetic plateau
This highway carries yellow lined cynicism
And white striped weariness
These pines hold my pining
For a life I long to know
Fully
These fours hours are my grace period
Of the transformation process
From untamed flight to civilized standstill
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
shoulders squared
putter lined up against
the pink gum ball at my
miniature feet
i know my father is watching
and i know he will swing me around in his arms
regardless if i get a hole in one,
and say, 'i'm proud of you, kathy b'
that loop-de-loop was a real *****
i remember the car rides home
fleetwood mac on the freeway
every time i asked you where we were going
you'd tell me, "to the moon"
hold my hand,
and with you
we went celestial
and in a couple years,
i'll advance and swing clubs against the wind
i begged you to teach me, begging
"how do you get that ball to fly so high"
i'd crane my neck against the sky
even with me on your shoulders,
our love flew so high
and i was terrified of you dropping me
i never played to impress you
i played because it was a part of you
sweetly polished, leather golf shoes
you smelled like grass,
and sunday
and thick tulsa wind
so you and i played every weekend
in aunt melissa's backyard,
i stared at my compromise
when i was thrown off the backseat of the cart
my twisted tiny fingers
dangling
pit pattering against rubber
it smelled like gasoline
and i couldn't stop thinking about
your sweet leather, newly polished shoes
we didn't play golf anymore after that
i stared death in the face, and so do you
because we hold hands in a different ways
you're on my shoulders now
because your occipital is faulty
and you can barely see
i'm hoping one day,
you'll teach me how to hurl pink gum *****
through the wind, so effortlessly
i hope one day you'll teach me
to pick out the perfect christmas tree,
and i hope you tells me you're proud of me,
kathy b
a perfect chicken soup recipe
the cure for all broken memories
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
When He came home from work that day
He said “Enough’s enough”.
“Let others built the widgets,
I have done that long enough.”
I’ll live a life of leisure,
crafting poetry and song.
Perhaps I’ll write short stories
or play my guitar all night long.”
Such boundless optimism
didn’t take Fate into account.
Fate, the foe of youth and love,
was lurking there about.
That man thought that He had years of time
to write and think and putter.
Yet Fate was of another mind,
and a malediction muttered.
A tightness in the chest He felt.
A soreness in one arm.
He was sure that it was nothing.
Soon thereafter, He was gone
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
Dare she lies
With a three inch putt
Tap in birdie
For sure
With a **** in her eyes
She looked askance
How can this be
It was a beautiful drive
Straight down the fairway
A pitch and a roll
Fortuitous is the bounce ... swing
Now standing abreast on the green
Nonchalant
She takes the putter to bed
One under par
Logan Robertson
3/30/2019
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 12:05 AM UTC
I'm following the red pig
ziggety zag
i can smell her blood **** & ***
whipped and wet
thick as jelly
bouncy bouncy
belly gut trampoline
oodles up **** hole bazooka
her mind lavishly corrupt
nothing pained her but emptiness
her soul a poem of lust's dissolution
so give it
my red hot pig *****
gag hag
**** bag
valedictorian of kisses
i love the sweat wet
cascading dark waters
that run so raw
your lunch the history
of projectile salad and pizza
over glistening ***** and thighs
the ********* knows
pain is not punishment
but pleasure
spawned by unfulfilled intentions
i like it when you close your eyes
you appear so blameless
i pray looking up to your ******
that yields its delicate shade of feeling
like a bomb
blinkity blink puddle and squeeze
come my love for a frantic ****
and flapping jowls
on the frig of treasure
in the land of dungeons and ******
i bay at your ankles for attention
and a toe to kiss
many wish they lived here
especially the love sick
from whom all is withheld
i know i owe you tenderness
meet you in the bathroom
for a midnight date
where gawking tongues putter
inhaling White Widow Cheese
bound in straps and wide
for a lady business nose dive
neck bone lassoed
mouth gaping
like a twisted black coat hanger
shes out of her rolling marbles
ready to ****
boogie woogie raw
in broken maiden paradise
lovely beast of submission
she wobbles
dead cat bounce
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
The President assessed the scene
and gave a terse command.
His caddy grabbed his putter
and put it in Obama’s hand.
The breeze as not a factor
The air was hot and still.
The hole, a dozen feet away,
blocked by a small windmill.
Barrack needed this putt for par.
to help him tie the score.
Boehner got a hole in one
in the clown face just before.
Obama gave his ball a stroke-
it veered wide, an inch or two.
It’s a pity folks are watching
Or he’d lie about that too.
That he should be reduced to this;
Playing at the “Pirate’s cove.
The sequester is a right wing plot
likely dreamed up by Karl Rove.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
Jeg tager det stille og roligt denne gang,
jeg forventer intet af fremtiden,
men jeg forventer troskab og ærlighed, hvis jeg skal blive i det.
Jeg vil være der for ham og støtte ham,
men jeg vil hverken kontrollere ham eller bestemme over ham,
jeg vil stole på ham og lade ham nyde sit liv med sine venner og veninder, men jeg forventer han kun vil have min kærlighed og det er nok for ham.
Jeg kan virkelig godt lide ham, jeg er stolt af ham og elsker hans personlighed, han er helt sig selv og han er ikke bange for hvad andre tænker.
Jeg elsker når han kysser mig når vi vågner, nusser mig og putter sig helt op ad mig, hele natten, ligemeget hvor varmt det er, er han altid helt tæt på mig hele natten.
Han er fantastisk og han fandt mig og omvendt i en svær tid, men den tid har ændret mig både fysisk og psykisk. Jeg elsker mit nye jeg og det er sikkert også derfor det her er rigtigt denne gang, fordi jeg endelig har fundet mig selv og jeg elsker mig selv
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
Feeling empty like a car out of gas , can't even putter around anymore , done like like a man in jail , sitting in my ****** apartment letting my mind go in a million directions , I feel as if I'm missing a pice to a puzzle , just gone , can't froget about it like your first day of school , your first kiss ,or the day I first saw you , still sitting in my hell hole of an appartment alone with nothing but memories from the past the " good ole days " to soon to say hi again , still feeling the spark so a hello and good by was the time to soon to say hi the awkward moment of silnce following , as the spark walks away for the fire to be not lit , ,I love you and I can't stop your always there , as a pitied sits on a wall i, I can't get sleep tonight eventhough I know everything will be alright .... This empty feeling *****
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
I guess the leaves are on the lawn now,
like Fall always comes and thank God for October
but too many grandparents have died this month, and
on the first day, the rain keeps
coming.
And I have been
obliterated by simple things,
like October or
the coming and going of people.
I have been
shocked silent into this room,
I am still never
sure of what left there is to say;
there are too many people that I have left with semicolons
and no following independent clauses
or independent thought.
Shake me the most awake,
or I will blanch and putter and
scream in the morning.
How nightmares upon nightmares
upon daymares
have thrown me for something—
a loop maybe? A figure-eight?
———
I have always
wondered why we collect shells on the beach.
(I know I do it too, but)
they once held life
and I am wondering why we celebrate
the shell of things.
———
I am not sure how to end this,
but in the ever so common way of ending
without really an ending at all.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
the hall walker slides along the wall
one hand brushing the cheap paint
his thin vacant face
etched in a shallow gasping for breath caricature
the hall walkers drifting steps
are across the carpets patterns
but no one objects
his neat and clean golf pro outfit
still clings to its filthy rich beginnings
suede leather faces
and the disdain they project
the hall walker has paused
to announce his desire to be on his way
to the blank wall
a poster nearby grins down at his madness
with a fateful message about condoms
lest the madness spread no doubt
he raises his voice
but to no avail
the wall remains ignorant
but we are far from alone
me and the hall walker
a stream of faces
the tight lipped impaired people
come in waves through the hall
like a strange tidal basin of the medical world
the floaters and driftwood
the gathers of shells
and thouse who seek to hide inside them still
this odd place of the infirm
a dozen bent forms
pushing canes
and mounted on wheelchairs
slowly fold the hallway
with the repeated ebb and flow
of their travels
the low electric sound of their hover-rounds
like meat grinders digesting a daily dose
putter past in steady stream
a nightmare vision of what awaits
the hall walker stops to ponder
the fate of his domain
his hall is no longer his kingdom
and they now shoo him into rooms
or out the door
rather than let him walk the line
between dark and light
that is the way the world decides
the hall walker
pressed his golf shoe
into the soft dirt of wet night
and smiled clean and real
recalling the scent
and releasing his grip
he follows the young nurse to bigger and better halls
to walk the wall
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Delicate things,
And pretty flowers.
Special days with apple pie,
Cinnamon cakes and tea.
Warm weather,
Or a bit of a chill.
Comforting childhood,
Come at will.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC