"rummaged" poems
On the winding path
I continued to follow
An owl sat perched
Old tree remain hollow
It’s eyes were wide
Piercing through me
Claws dug in
To the barren tree
Hoot hoot hoot
A steady beat
Inviting me
To take a seat
Under the owl
I took my place
Reached for a stick
To trace
My name in the mud
Rummaged through my bag
Began to take
Yet another drag
Turning to ashes
I was in the night
Under the owl
It felt just right.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
She often times scared away her nightly slumber
Her thoughts grew louder and more chaotic with every tick of the clock
She let her past mistakes consume her
Rummaged internally for answers to her actions that led her here
Lying on a mattress which sat on the carpet of a rundown apartment
Alone
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
She kept eyes open all night looking and thinking and drinking
A lot of drinking to seize the thoughts that drowned her
She traveled back in her dormant state to find events she wished had happened differently Dreamt up memories where she never walked away
Or where she refrained from saying something in an outburst of anger
She was haunted by
Everything
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
Her thoughts had begun to agitate her being Transforming her mind into a whirlwind of anger and helplessness
She sat up at the edge of her mattress with the palms pressed tightly against her eyes, shaking her head in a frenzy
Her hands migrated to her hair, gathering a hand full and pulling
Eyes stung with the tears that began to surface She took hasty steps toward her counter in search of a bottle to console her for the night
The only thing that put an end to the chaos was
Alcohol
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
THREE old hermits took the air
By a cold and desolate sea,
First was muttering a prayer,
Second rummaged for a flea;
On a windy stone, the third,
Giddy with his hundredth year,
Sang unnoticed like a bird:
"Though the Door of Death is near
And what waits behind the door,
Three times in a single day
I, though upright on the shore,
Fall asleep when I should pray.'
So the first, but now the second:
"We're but given what we have eamed
When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned,
So it's plain to be discerned
That the shades of holy men
Who have failed, being weak of will,
Pass the Door of Birth again,
And are plagued by crowds, until
They've the passion to escape."
Moaned the other, "They are thrown
Into some most fearful shape.'
But the second mocked his moan:
"They are not changed to anything,
Having loved God once, but maybe
To a poet or a king
Or a witty lovely lady."
While he'd rummaged rags and hair,
Caught and cracked his flea, the third,
Giddy with his hundredth year,
Sang unnoticed like a bird.
2.1k
A picture of us
sits next to your bathroom sink.
I saw it as I rummaged
through cabinets
looking for toothpaste:
I was sunburned, wearing braces,
and you held a wooden spoon
with the same smile,
crooked nose,
and bushy eyebrows
in the kitchen.
You would come home early,
I would chop
onion and garlic,
garlic and onion,
to Metallica blaring
on your stereo.
We can stir the ***
until our hands blister,
but something added
cannot be removed.
There was the summer
we built model rockets,
the summer you took me to meet
our family in Greece,
and all those summers
we ate Krispy Kreme and fished.
I didn’t become an astronaut,
I didn’t learn Greek,
I threw up over the side of the boat,
but because you came home early
so many days in a row – just for me –
that was my favorite summer.
Today, over the
chop-chop-sizzle
in a broken-in kitchen
we fill a stained cookbook
with dog-ears,
small adjustments.
The same ingredients
never taste the same way twice.
We reclaim a day
out of years lost.
Then that photo
by your sink.
It was a small
Father’s Day gift,
survivor of four moves
and twelve years
of self-discovery,
still reminding you – and me –
of summers spent
breaking in kitchens
and recipes
we’ve been making for years.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
I wanted to see you where the years were kind,
inescapably etched and displayed like
smooth stones spread out on velvet;
but I wouldn't ask. I rummaged through zippers
and heavy things.
On a cool summer night we heard a hiss of
broken stars across the desert sky
and looked up in time to see one pass over head
like a science fiction rocket ship.
It was a moment with you I will never forget.
It's funny how things are settled or settling
and divided by extremes,
jealousy - anger - hurt - houses -
etched stones - broken stars,
stuff you can't find words for,
stuff you wish you'd written down,
words that end up on gravestones.
So leave me with my imagination and your beauty,
maybe some nostalgia as my muse, add one more thing
for sure, make my children our children
not half - me - half - devil - children
and maybe I wouldn't have to run,
wouldn't have to start a war.
Maybe I could be happy without
your etched stones.
Maybe all I really need is a broken star.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
Part 4
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!
But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.
First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.
With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.
Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!
She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!
She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!
She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.
The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.
She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.
Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!
The slingshot worked!
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy! I’ve never been this high!
She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!
So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.
She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
There were furrows in his brow
Kept his music much too loud
Paper skin and paper grin
To his chest, a heart we'll pin
Veins are ****** tunnels
A carbonated bottle
A lump love funnels,
Bubbles over, feeling sober
Dismal future, no four leaf clover
Afraid to search around for a light
Afraid to wait around and see that it might
Not be all that worthwhile
He lived to take flight
Dark crimson in a ****** vile
Injection withdrawn, thin paper smile
Down below,
Ground is coming near
And before the pavement
A vision was clear
A final thought rummaged through his brain
A blissful blow, a final aching pain
A florescent concussion, an angelic cheer
A temporary life he lived
For it was not death he feared
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Gypsy died on a date unknown.
We found her surrounded by moldy food, in her apartment, alone.
My grandmother who prayed for Jesus to be in my heart,
Lay lifeless on the couch,
falling apart.
Dad was in rehab and we gave him a call
Sitting In the hallway up against the wall.
He answered and said, "I'm doing so good! Never been better, like I knew I would!"
The news of his mothers death, with him being so far away,
Caused him to drop the phone and start screaming in pain.
"Oh god, no this can't be true"
He wasn't even there to pay his dues.
I Flipped through Polaroids she kept in a box,
Surrounded by people, all worried and lost.
Gypsy and I would play in the backyard,
She had red hair and a golden heart.
We filled endless bags with her crosses and bibles,
All smoking cigarettes and talking for a while.
They took her away in a hearse,
As I rummaged through all the junk in her purse,
Letters and donations to be sent out to churches,
all left without stamps, empty and worthless.
I called her gypsy because she was as free as the wind,
The crazy make-up lady who would laugh to no end.
Nobody wanted answers as to why she died,
She was laid to rest on Christmas Eve, the closest to Jesus she'd ever been in her life.
I hope now gypsy is finally alright.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
In the depths of sad
I found I had
But one smile left
Crooked though it was
It still had the hooks
Sharp as could be;
To hang all my worries
Upon that smile
Nailed onto my face
Centered under my sad sad eyes
A bowl to hold my tears,
This was my smile
I wore proudly,
Until it crumbled
And broke off,
I rummaged again
Tried to find another,
Sifting through
The dried up shards
Of my heart
And all the torn up
Memories,
Rotting compost heap
Deep within
My chest,
Foot locker
Of my soul...
APAD13 017 - © okpoet
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
she shuffled aboard
on the tail of rush-hour,
at bowling green,
brooklyn-bound,
70 unwashed scents in tow,
and a purple bergdorf-goodman shopping bag
stuffed with stains and soiled rags,
a crumpled ny post
and a white plastic bag,
the focus of her bare hands
as she sat down;
hands wrinkled and worn
but tough
like a boxer's;
silver strands of knotted hair,
fell over her face
etched in age and acrimony,
as she rummaged through the bag;
right eye closed,
feigning sleep,
I peaked over the aisle
through the left;
she untied the white plastic bag
unveiling dinner
in a styrofoam take-out container:
rice, beans and chunks of meat
smothered in red gravy;
a 5-dollar special no doubt,
stuffed into her mouth
with a black plastic spoon;
slurp....slurp....slurp
burp....lick..burp
she looked up,
flaunting a toothless smile of extreme delight
"SAY YOU LOVE ME!
SAY YOU LOVE ME!"
she screamed
to no one,
and everyone...
then barged through the door
at franklin,
scents, stains, rags et al,
tossing spoon and styrofoam
onto the
floor...
but for a few shaking heads
and wry smiles,
most were unmoved,
and glued to digital magnets;
she was just another
nut-of-the-day
on the ny subway...
~ Pablo (#fcbb)
10/21/2013
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
She rummaged around in my soul,
as though looking for a pen in a handbag,
and i was left wondering
how words had such a power over my being.
Left drained and fulfilled
Life's intentions bloomed inside me
and at once i felt at home in a darkened room.
Do not panic,
please breathe deep,
I beg you to hold your tongue,
I too have words to speak,
no one to listen,
and little faith in Prophecy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Angela,
would you ever
come back?
I've been asking
this question
as the licquor
subsides.
I've been
sleeping
on it,
just to take
its weight down.
I ate
three tasteless burgers,
and rummaged
through their tomatoes
looking for your lips
red as cherries.
Hopefulness
is a disease,
a cancer
because it spreads
in violent fingers.
The **** of my heart
has begun
before the burgers
settled.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
THE SHADOWS PALMS
STRETCHED IN THE EBONY ROADS
MUSING ON THE BLOCKS OF RUGGED STONE STEPS
GARNERED AND GATHERED BY CHAFED PALMS.
STRADDLING OVER THEM
THE DEEP FURROWS AND HEATED BROWS
NOW BROWN AND TANNED WEARING
A RUMMAGED MOUSTACHE OF CLIMBING VINES.
EVERY STEP AMUSES,
A MUSE THAT DOES NOT CEASE TO AMUSE,
IN THE HEAT OVERDOSES.
AND WHEN THE ARECA PALMS PALIPATING
IN ARRAY
HOIST ABOUT LIKE ROWS OF MEN DOPED
IN CEILED BANKS OF DISTRUST
A CYNICAL NILA CRIES ,
HER PLUNDERED SANDS.
NOW THE SUNKEN FERRIES ,
HAVE APPEARED AT HER BAY,
AND PAINFULLY CHAFE EACH OTHER.
A ***** FROM THE BOTTOM
STIRRING THE BELL FOR THE REQUIEM
PAY THE FERRYMEN.
FOR THE WAYFARERS WAFFLED WRITINGS
ARE ADDRESSED
TO THE MEN WHO PLASTERED HER WALLS ALONE
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
This morning
I woke up
and
told Melissa we wouldn’t
make it past three months.
We're at month two,
and I can feel it.
Either I’d drop her, or she’d
drop me, but either way
“we don’t have staying power,
and there’s no point
in either of us
pretending like we’re grown ups
who can just power through things
out of sheer complacency”.
I wasn’t looking at her.
Just up
at the spackle and a spinning fan.
It’s so hot in here,
that we sleep on top of the covers
sweating little puddles of skin
into the comforter.
Nightly,
we mash those deposits of dried salt
deep into the mattress
with our sloughing bodies
to get stuck
and form
tiny caves of skin and boredom in the springs.
She rolled away from me
swirling off a cloud
of stale, watermelon shampoo
And reached
With a tightly domed deltoid
towards the blue milk crate
where her purse sat.
She rummaged in there,
her back muscles working
like a landslide of flesh.
She finally dropped the purse,
after an effort of five minutes,
and I heard the successful flick
of a lighter.
She started
puffing and chugging down smoke
As she laid on her side.
My eyes watered
in the bluish smog,
and as the fan turned
raining down peices of our own skin
in a dusty, undetectable cloud of particulates
I could just see her,
out of the corner of my eye,
Shifting the weight of her body
from her deltoid
to her trapezius.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:39 PM UTC
antidote, antidote
where are you
my body will lay
lifeless
without you
someone injected
venom into my blood
and i can't
seem to find you.
antidote, antidote
save me
i don't know where
else to look
for you.
i've searched under
beds and
over closets;
inside barrels
and scoured the
city through.
please tell me,
drop a hint
i'm dying.
i've rummaged
through everything
in front of me.
i can't see you wherever.
antidote, antidote
could you by
any chance
be my killer?
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
Yesterday morning I awoke like a sparkle.
I rose from my floor mattress and danced and sang!
My clumsy fingers rummaged through the piles of clothing
Making decision a difficult annoyance.
Then finally, dressed simply and breathing heavily,
A knock sounded on my door.
There he was!
A knight so handsome and youthful it made my heart flutter.
So, my heart aflutter and my eyes a sparkle, I took steps
Side by side this gallant knight,
Off to make whatever would be made of that most beautiful day.
~~~~~~~~
The knight and I walked under the trees and
Along the shallow stream.
Walked and talked of many things.
That was the simplest afternoon I can conjure in my mind,
And it was absolutely perfect!
By the end of that afternoon we had already made
A bucket list of adventures for the coming days.
And now,
As I sit on my floor mattress typing away my heart-flutters,
I know I look forward to nothing more than adventuring and discovering
With this handsome youthful gallant knight.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Paulette had phoned in a frenzy, she
Was having a crying fit,
I said, ‘I can’t understand you girl,
Slow down, slow down a bit!’
And then she told me that John was dead
That she’d found him lying there,
That somebody must have broken in
And crushed his skull with a chair.
‘The place is a perfect shambles, Rob,
It looks like a bomb has hit,
There’s blood all over the hearth, the hob,
And outside, over the grit,
He must have left by the patio door
There are footprints over the tiles,
I’ve never seen so much blood before…’
And then she sobbed for a while.
I made the appropriate noises, just
To comfort her in her loss,
But really, I couldn’t care at all,
I just couldn’t give a toss,
For John had jumped in my woman’s bed
The moment my back was turned,
I had to hide that I felt so glad
That all of his boats were burned.
‘I need you Rob, will you come on down,
I can’t do this on my own,’
Her words, the nectar of ancient gods
I felt that my wings had grown.
‘I’ll be there, honey, I won’t be long,
We’ll tidy it up just pat,
I just have something I have to do,
I’ll pop by the Laundromat.’
I tied the washing bag by the neck
To drag it out to the car,
But only got to the hallway when
There came a knock at the door,
A neighbour wanted to borrow a tool
So I rummaged round in the shed,
And when he went, I had to be gone,
Drove straight to my girl’s instead.
The police were crawling all over the place
And said that, ‘You can’t come in!’
‘I came express at my friend’s request.’
‘Too bad, but where have you been?’
I said I’d give them a statement, then
I shrugged and said, ‘That’s that!
Just tell Paulette I’ll come to her when
I’ve been to the Laundromat.’
The police were there at the Laundromat
When I sauntered in with the bag,
The sergeant stared and he pursed his lips
As my shoulders began to sag.
‘What’s that on the bag?’ he questioned me,
And I said, ‘it looks like mud!’
‘Now isn’t that strange, it seems to be
That your bag is seeping blood!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Federico was the man in black, abstruse were his eyes
He was a dandy highway man, a mask for his disguise
His gaze was cold and steely, trained upon the track
His mount held fast, like the night, but almost twice as black
The church bell broke the silence, a single, solitary sound
Right on cue the coach appeared, his quarry he had found
He urged his filly forward, drew his flintlock from his side
With beating heart he waited, to see what would betide
As the coach drew closer, his voice let out a boom
His pistol cocked, and gaze still locked emerging from the gloom
“Ladies and gentlemen; if thou dost wish to avert from strife”
“Thou shalt stand and deliver your money or your life!”
With this behest a portly gent bounded from his seat
So rotund, even he was stunned he landed on his feet
“You villainous half brained haggard!” he cried, reaching for his gun
But before his words had pierced the night this poor old fool was done
Federico rolled him over and rummaged for his purse
Whilst the women started whimpering and men began to curse
“Now thou wilt relinquish all thy silver and part with all thy gold”
“Or find yourselves upon the road, bodies growing cold!”
With much unrest, concern at best, most fearing for their health
The shaken party accepted fate and parted with their wealth
Federico took his ***** and climbed upon his horse
Then through the darkened avenue he began to plot his course
Across the moors and rolling downs he galloped through the mist
To find his path to safety and to keep a lovers tryst
Assured that no one saw a thing, the night and mare both sable
He approached his homestead silently and left her in the stable
On tips of toes, whilst skipping rows he glided up the stair
To see his beau, with love that’s true of which could not compare
Creeping through the chamber door, to join his sleeping bride
To dream the dreams that lover’s dream he slipped in by her side
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
Down where the river flows
This is where the old souls go
Where water dances in lustrous blues & bright yellows
Some died old & others were young fellows
They play jazz & R&B tunes
Drowning out their gray moods
Each one shows up sad
Then leave with a smile worth a grand
But none are here for money, no
They're here to forget the ones they let go
Heartbreak hurts indeed
But having a broken soul, nothing competes
Down by the swaying willow tree
Old souls become free
Dressed in the hues of their stories
Sneaky eyes have tried to read
Careful! Don't be seen
Humans shouldn't intervene
For there is a soul from the past
A boy who's last breath was a laugh
Still young & naive
He craved a new world to see
The sight of a girl led him to the town
And his laugh became an alarming sound
All souls searched and seeked
Braylen Otto Oakley
Whizzing past familiar places
And seeing grieving faces
They shouted his name
Wanting the pain to go away
Rummaged through their past
Hoping these feelings wouldn't last
"What is it you look for?"
BOO
Where did he go?
Nobody knew
Till then they scream out Boo
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
When the pall of sullen smoke recedes,
and the rubble long rummaged, after
the nightjars all return home to roost,
and tear-wells in the heart dry up,
the hour,
when the wails of sobbing mothers muffle,
broken
the silken dreams that we conjured up.
Under the vaults of the darkened skies,
who uncovers the faces masked,
read the blackened hearts of hatred?
Not the siren of death we heard then,
stirring the empty wells of our being:
but the song of the hopelessness of life
in the company of our shadow selves.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Anger swelled up
Like a huge bruise
All black and blue.
Fear ran the length of my arms
Pulsing, pulsing.
Swimming in desperate despair
Or more like drowning.
Rain falling,
Cool clear blue
Droplets dropping in the midday sun
Hot with an air of cool in it.
Nighttime fell on our small home
In Winchester.
Rain splattered the windows
Like Jackson *******
Sleep was unobtainable
The couch uncomfortable
Another year in this place could **** me.
With the syringes and scapegoats
The dry spells and witchcraft.
Someone here wants me dead.
Another year in this place will **** me.
Your best friend moved to town last week
We met at the local bar
And drank a few shots
And rummaged through your stuff
Laughing and laughing
Until you got home
Another year and I’ll be dead.
What’s this place you call home.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC