"slog" poems
eyes on my skin
hands on my hair
eyes on my words
hands on my thoughts
eyes on my home
hands on my rights
eyes on my fun
hands on my slog
eyes on my past
hands on my fate
eyes on my womb
hands on my kin
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 12:06 PM UTC
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Sweet as pipe, sonorous as violin
Wicked as a snake, ill-mannered as Bedouin;
Laziness creeps in secretly body within
And remains there undisturbed and akin.
It is seen when duty or slog does spin
Grinds us till in others found Lenin.
But that is a bad time as made us thin.
Hence precaution must be taken, O Kin!
Laziness, a Bad King, should not reign
Over us from beginning to let out jinn.
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
It's about time
We celebrate
A Happy Human Day
Women slog it out
And men do it ,too
Managing the house
Raising kids together
Doing the chores
And helping each other
Each and every day
It's about equality
That we speak
Then Why not today
Happy that we are born ,
Human
Time we celebrate
Each and every one
And let the day be
The Happy Human Day
.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
they say that love never dies
could never curl and bawl and cry
love is the purest of all emotions
even turbulent and torrid
it is pure, never horrid
but I'm tired of loving you
or seeing your jaw, you finger, your tooth
and feeling a rush of fear
that i will never escape from this anxious pit of unclear
good intentions and impure thoughts
so i do what i am taught
i slog through the love, the lust
the misplaced affections because i need, i must
be graced with one smile, a small glimpse
even if my feelings you already dismissed
i was going to tell you, don't you know?
i was going to knock my feelings off their petty throne
i thought that maybe if i let it all out
i would not feel a gout
of excitement for the forbidden feelings
that maybe i could stop pealing
in laughter at the smallest thing
when i thought you weren't looking, as i watched you sing
that i would have the control of my buzzing desire
but now i refuse to fan the fire
my friends still egg me on.
Valentines Day is on Saturday, what could go wrong?
I've found that people are great at giving advice
when it wont affect them even once or twice
but they know that you know off my misplaced affection
you see it now in every inflection
she lied and told you behind my back
and then asked me to cut her some slack
when now that tenuous friendship we once had was broken
and i only ask you to give me a token
of admitting your silence
rings out louder
than any no
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
*The woodpecker wouldn't reveal,
the secret kept closer to her chest,
but the telegraphic messages
meant nothing else I gather it thus:
"Don't you give up midway
slog, till you are fully satisfied,
that you've reached there
where, what you are searching is found"
In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus,
goes on pecking making,
the noise louder and louder,
it's now more and more clear-
that in standards she'd never compromise,
never would she lower her esteem
even if her sense of urgency sometimes
creates some discordant notes
that she accepts as her fault
and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.*
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
He was never my classmate,
Neither was he my schoolmate,
As we have met on OkCupid,
Which is where we got suited.
He soon became my tablemate,
Then got promoted to bedmate,
Ranging from late-night nosh
To some naughty oh-my-gosh.
He was my almost-roommate,
Now, a hopeful housemate,
Since he would visit me daily
And keep me company gaily.
He was frequently my seatmate,
As well as invaluable playmate,
For we traveled places together
And cloyingly wrestled each other.
He has always been my helpmate,
And is presently my best teammate,
As he has cheered me up from afar,
As we chat as if there is no au revoir.
He will one day become my inmate,
Plus my hard-working workmate,
Since we will both have mini-me’s
Forcing us to slog away on our knees.
He is undoubtedly my soulmate,
One who is to become my lifemate,
For he is a romantic yet **** geek,
A keeper with charms all too unique.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
rehearsing...
in the mind
he rehearses
a sequence of blows
lefts and rights
uppercuts
the jabbing low
whilst dancing and skipping
on spry feet
insides...
butterflies start to flutter
around in his insides
yet knowing the opponent
must not see any nerves
he's got to be
cool
and
assertive
the glove's punch
deliveries
being
a
bout
winner
dreaming...
it's fight night
at the Las Vegas
Grand Garden Arena
he'll slog it out
for the welter weight title
muscles
poised
his package
ready
to wear the crowning
belt buckle
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Barrels of oil painted smooth in acryllic
fill up the cracks with a feeling
spit out the money to feed the machine
Fair if it's toiling kids
draped along spoiled villians
immersed to serve the version of a billionaire's dream
eat the rich
Try me after I've been taught
I could've bought my chain
I would've lost my name
I should've dropped my shame facade
to play the game
We grew the youthful breath of heaven from the clay beneath our bones
imbued and innervated
aided you and drew the oath to play within the zone
circle reverie treasury burdens
bury the feathery,
herding squarely to fame - put on a show
eat the rich
dare me
you and yours invaded
bated breath had sung belated effort, whistle "death has reared it's head
at our expense so grab a sword.
We can war this **** straight out of this ole ditch
and fix whatever ***** gone wrong with it
with grit and sense
and build a fence"
Forget the soil your roots are grown in,
if you want to.
bask in shadow
of the weight of trust and decency
impeding our advances to your winner's table
fabled robin hoods with internets
guess who's deft enough let you know through every filter
left for us we may upset your dinner guests
let em know what's on the menu
eat the rich
let em know
The irony in learning
how to burn the fuel that kills you
after all the warning signs were there
sound familiar? it's a slog
burnin up, they'll crawl around
and find a meal on common ground
try the light show one more time
maybe that'll work
"The serfs are like a herd you see
they can't be riled along without a sermon
Burden them with silks and styles
worry them toward money piles"
Remind them of the fire they've been turning
Analogies aside I must abide by me and mine
but I've still got my eye on anything
...concerning
eat the rich
with discretion I guess.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 7:35 AM UTC
A yank around the branch for an unripe banana tree
makes for peels at the tears; an aggrandized detainee.
In three proper pieces, breathing spiff in the fog,
split flat on the soil, in an envelope of slog,
it doesn't really matter because
nobody knows but you.
It only really matters when
the answer is ubiquitous.
A pupil to imbue
labradoritic hues
will disagree to acquiesce
and suffuse bleeding happiness.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC
Wakes up to the chiming of the clock
I close the door and turn the lock
And start my morning walk.
The sun beams down to clear the fog
Ah....cool fresh air no more smog
As I begin my morning walk.
I go slow and easy I don't have to slog
No rush to compete or time to log
I'm enjoying my morning walk.
Corporate world is full of same mock
Up circus, wine, clowns and shock
I go for my morning walk.
Some brisk walking some prefer to jog
One run as if chased by a dog
Me and my morning walk.
People to people on the tracks of rock
Gossipers talk and talk, tick tock
But I've got my morning walk.
Before poor heart gives me the knock
Before old arteries starts to clog
Better take the morning walk.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Flipped through my comic
And there I eyed
Free ride on the batman slide
Got so pumped I nearly cried
Got so pumped I nearly cried
Took my ticket
Drove to the fair
Let the wind breeze through my hair
Kind of cold but I don't care
Kind of cold but I don't care
There it was
Past flume log
Was it worth this sudden slog?
Chomping on my chili dog
Chomping on my chili dog
Gave the ticket
Crawled on in
Beaming with a goofy grin
Taking this ride for a spin
Taking this ride for a spin
I slid down
Then I barfed!
Losing all my debonair
Chili splattered everywhere
Chili splattered everywhere
Off to ride
Carousel
Handyman would come with broom
Walking past the scary flume
Walking past the scary flume
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
You require at least three similes.
A metaphor or two.
This section needs more sibilance,
and another allegory on alliteration too.
Creative writing
now a standardized test
where a poet seems
to do slightly poorer than the rest.
You receive a checklist, told
bye and buy the book.
Drain away the colours upon your pencil
or face the examiners sickle and hook.
Creative writing
now a slog a convoluted use and reuse
of that which
"improves"
your descriptions and inscriptions.
You need a conclusion.
something befitting a happy end.
Try anything smart
and a bad grade i'll be "sure to send."
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
She labors to smile,
irony draws lines
on her embittered face,
thick dark iron bars,
temporarily cage pain;
yet the risk
the two run is toxic.
soon they 'd have to face it,
unmistakable indications reveal,
her velvet voice over the phone,
conjured up an image,
drastically different,
a sadness now faintly asks
his permission to spread quickly,
confused he postpones, buying time.
guilt, a shaggy, smelly, hound
suspicion, its dominant trait,
lurks sniffing around,
the table they mutely sit,
like prisoners of unburied past
convoluting the plot,
by playing ***** tricks.
the air thickens
chocking both,
the haunt leers, licks its paws in glee
what is its intention?
"You look more or less
like him, my former lover-
I try to erase from memory
by every which way possible,
sorry about that, but i can't help it,
he traded in pain of many kinds
ingeniously, nothing else he did"
she shoots from the hip.
memory of an evil genius
was quickly resurrected by him
from the assortment of stereotypes,
vision of caravans transporting
gun powder kegs of bad memories, flashed
he had a match stick handy.
soon, everything exploded to culminate;
darkness devoured all, breaking limits.
caravans slog towards horizon, one after other still.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Every thought I conjour is venomous
Specifically hot and pressed 'insensitive'
Literally lost in bottled hot headedness
Weighty when I slog a verbal cosh with these sentences
Hasty without thought at a cost to everybody's detriment
An onslaught with no relevance...
I wish I'd stopped...
If only I'd stopped...
Jan 1, 2023
Jan 1, 2023 at 8:44 AM UTC
This elegant bloom
forgot the season
came stocked for summer idylls
picnics by the water's edge
scent of mowed fields
scent of love's flowering.
Pitiful rose
how did you become
so lost in time?
Nothing now becomes you.
So I carefully cut
the stem
placed your ******* vein
in a slender jar
filled with
the last spring's freshet.
You came to life
for us
at Christmas time.
A meager blessing
in a time of pain.
A frail totem
in a time of dread.
I wake each day
with despair eating at
my good spirits
the specter of
a new political order
crouching in the darkest corners
of my place of rest.
God **** it!
Send that orange horror
into oblivion.
******* monster
robbing my nights of peace.
There is no sense to this life.
There is rhyme without reason,
pain without relief.
Just the same
I will slog on.
One foot in front of
the other.
Repeating as necessary.
And then letting it go
through the latched gate of time.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
Drinking her is a terrible experience
The furious fizz fizzles on your tounge, insisting on its existence in your mouth
The facade of fun from the fucia bottle flickers,
leaving you with clear liquid suffering
It flagrantly fizzes around your mouth, flicking your tastebuds.
It’s funny she says.
Then the facade of fizz fizzles,
You taste hatred
A bitter thirst.
An acrid stench of fear, inflicted on others
An unrelenting
Slog
Of equal suffering.
I do not know who made fizzy water,
but i would like to have a chat.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 12:55 PM UTC
Across the burnt field
I carry my load
I pierce the smoky expanse
my energy flags
I yearn for rest
but the burden gets heavier
I am alone
and slog for both of us.
I converse with my mind:
“Please, a small spell
to float this flood
to higher ground.
Find an ounce of push,
then I can unravel.”
A midnight exhaustion overtakes me
I lay depleted
at wits end
I pray
a surrender
concede
abandon
my self
gaunt, frail, devoid.
Before sleep an appeal
to a power greater than me
deliver me from these ashes.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
I remind myself as I stare through the blue water blemished by floating small objects that
I don't want to know what they are
It is me, who once again, will save myself, and take a turn,
and I am determined, that after I slog through this stinking muck
and have washed off, and have recovered from the fatigue of escape
there are fair days to come, days which open out to me now as the
beach dunes near where I will live, stretch out into the distance, forever
shrouded in gentle fog and my cell phone area code,
my home area code, will again match my locale
and I'm no gangster, but this simple fact,
represents returning to hope and strength and sanity on my Earth
and better days are to come, I know
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
the girl shared my Luna bar
and
the phones were passed around
and
the woman had no shoes
and
the conductor took no tickets
and
the women shared their seat
and
the man gave her cab fare
and
the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
the girl went back to Buffalo
and
still we turn
and
still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
still we turn
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
Marching on thru our circuital seas:
A moat lurking beneath tremendous Facebook walls,
delineating our impalpable fortress of solitude (irony).
We slog through the trenches like Lee's troops,
drudging on a fatal course
to an awaiting Grant in Appomattox (destiny?).
Soldiers falling at the wayside,
from wounds, starvation, disease,
hashtags for dog tags draped around cadaverous necks--
Perhaps you can identify us by what's trending.
Had we the strength to shout,
and tear down the walls of Digital Jericho,
would we have been able to do it,
in 140 characters or less?
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
i've heard it said
of friends who can only bare
the weather fair,
that they are better left
in that climate, there
that of all your loves
the ones who don't give up
slog through the ****
all for the prospect
of living it up
that's who you do it for
open your heart
open your arms
open your mind
free the soul
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 9:29 PM UTC
Sometimes I awaken from my dreams
from that soft mindless drifting that is sleep
and I get snagged
on the subtle undercurrent of worry
a swirling feeling of fragility
the antonym of youth
when I was the captain of my soul
steering with assurance
buoyed by faith in my muscle and wit.
In the slowing pace of my days
I get snagged on remembering:
the steady increase of forgetting
the ache in my knees upon standing
the declining elasticity
of my skin and my will.
All of these hiccups
twist me toward the scratchy edge
the bleak and chancy fog
of anxiety.
This thick arrhythmia
in the music of my day
can tempt me to get stuck
in the stupid stuporous thread of
thinking: the rest of this bad day
is a foregone conclusion
instead of this confident conviction:
It's up to me
to discover the next thing
I can create,
to open the blinds
and the windows
to ***** or stick or trick
my mind,
to wake up
and imagine
or remember how it felt:
to hold an infant
to hit a solid fly ball
to see fireworks light up the dark
to win a big jackpot
to make the perfect shot
to kiss her luscious lips
to see my first eclipse.
One other trick I can do
when I trip and fall into counting my losses
or lamenting my crosses -
is to make a gratitude list.
It always works to lift the fog
and step out of my slog
to rhyme me out of the sadness bog.
I hope I'll remember these solutions
to fear's dark and dangerous pollution
and when I think I'm too **** old
to try a thing or two
I will think of the days of being bold
and live and love me
into the new.
“MindTricking,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Written 5-6-17
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
i'm gonna get me
a new set of eyeballs
too much readin'
n writin n stuff
can't proofread
worth a dam
gotta go live my life
not set here n write
now i got me's
a little nut
and she writes
not so slow
i ain't much
fer words
likin the
sound of silence
myself
but this little
new nut
she's kinda a
cute little darlin
so with my eyes
whirling in despair
i slog forth
until they can
be repaired.
i gotta get me
a new set
of eyeballs,
one new set of eyeballs
i'm gonna get
me.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
It is all flowing uphill
back into the tributaries
into the headwaters
Life returns to its source
at the end
Chinook salmon spawn in their natal streams and die
their bodies nourish their young
who make haste to salt water
then return from the sea
to repay the favor
Uphill it is for us
a long slog, it seems
We are dedicated enemies
of entropy
unconscious
yet knowing our duty
So these are your instructions.
You must wake each day
and know it as a gift
never pause in worship
never cease your upstream struggles
until it is time
for such foolishness to end.
Grit and muscle
heart and will
life is short
yet sweeter still.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
You wake up,
but don't wanna get up.
Sunshine upsets your sun
getting ready is tiresome.
Breakfast is just formality
you walk up to normalcy.
Meeting people sane
saves from being insane,
you dig your head in work
but everything is mundane.
You slog back to home
to find something lost,
on bed you lie down
like a log of soiled moss.
Perpetuating purpose of life
Am I only breathing
or even it means alive,
wandering conscience,
in the mind reframes.
And you sleep with an aim
Someday I will break this chain.
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 2:49 AM UTC