"slosh" poems
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.
212.6k
the ebb and tide of diamond waves slosh in the most serene celerity.
it is then that i know i am safe.
i lie in the ocean's arms,
and become a grain of sand,
until your song is sent my way
and i crystallize.
oh i am a pearl, born from pain.
your timbre plays melodies on my heartstrings, siren.
your beauty shadowboxes with my soul, siren.
i am not yours to keep, siren.
i am the tidecaller and i have a place.
but oh siren, why must you sing when i want to sleep?
why must you sing when i want to weep?
oh, siren, take my soul to keep.
no longer my sea.
sea of sirens, sea of song.
your song always lets me know that i mustn't tag along.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
Yes Spring has come to the land,
Mother Nature has shed her coat,
time to get off the couch and do what matters most. Live and have fun!
So I am out catching up on the chores and second duty, granddaughter watch,
prune here, rake there, now where has that little tike gone?
Perhapes if I give these little hands something to occupy,
why the best thing is a little water, yes that will bring a smile.
So here is the battle ground as the scene unfolds.
She has a little pail, I have the garden hose.
Her duty, quite simple,place some water on the plants,
end result however, water on PawPaw's pants!
So only to even the score, mind you no harm intended,
was to give the little tike a squirt and the battle would have ended.
Oh no, not today! This little tink has got some guts!
Why with every squirt I give that girl, I get a pail of slosh!
So of course, being the elder here and quite mature I say,
I give that girl her monies worth and let out a real good spray!
Soon the chores are all forgotten and the plants need water no more,
end of the day I can say she may have even tied the score!
Wow how much water do these pampers hold?!
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
I sing the song of the sinking ships that drown in the vast, dark ocean of depression I call home. They slosh against my ribcage with such force, I fear I may break entirely.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Do you hear water wherever you go?
The hum,
the slosh,
the drum,
the stroke.
Always moving, potentially drowning us slow.
Like how happy people hear music
you hear the tide,
and the moon tugging gently;
you have nowhere to hide.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
For my muse, I choose the euphoric source
Of my most transcendent -
Lovely
- Muddy
Memories.
Perceptual flashes ― slosh slushing
Approaching an untamed blue-green pond
Just your average amphibian gone blonde.
In sunshine or windward shower.
Loitering around the grassy brim,
On that one slick rock, I stood up
Catch a fish ― oooooh you swift ⁓
Let it back in?
Or you could...
Run screaming like the flaming river rumbling down the mountain.
To the lunulate lagoon?? in the front yard
Hop & stand
Fish in hand You. Have. To. Make. It.
But the gargantuan estate. . . it's too late.
That tiny t-rex gait ― might just seal
That golden guppies fait.
Cause you sprung like spring
And set that little sucker free.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
When the moon retires running her length
the river lies a fishbone on the white plate
feebly breathing like the slosh from oars,
the shadow digs a hole in the bush.
The faintest chill rattles don't escape
and the chatters dull as broken notes,
the shadow picks up from the mist
with the intent of an absorbed dreamer.
The gold diggers in that forbidden land
filter their preys keen to fill some more
from the mines lining the grey riverbank
with each reap a little closer to attainment.
The precise compass weighs the measure
tightening the muscles into a symphony
for that climb onto the ****** in one spring
before stealing the stilled, deep into silence.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Mushy, mush! Mush!!
Emotions twirl and slosh,
Pack it in for the day,
And go frolic in hay.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
When sleep eludes me at night
And my mind floats aimless
Like a sail boat idle on the sea
When on my bed I lie staring vacant
At the pale moon that gleams,
A medley of sounds falls in my ears
I hear the chirp of cicadas, the screech of bats
The hooting of owls, the flutter of moths
The staccato notes of the crickets
And the shrill sonorous music of grass hoppers
Among these and the silent music of the stars
The one sound that delights me most
Is the sound of the whistling Thrush
Her loud song cuts through the air
And mingles with the soft hush of leaves
Hidden in the blanket of darkness
I am not privileged to see this beryl bird
To me, a Goddess of enchantment n’ magic
Sometimes like a sweet secret
She emerges from the depth of a ravine
Sometimes she hides in the leafy coverage
Of a nearby poplar tree
Always she starts with a hesitant whistle
As though rehearsing her own art
However gaining confidence
And happy over her trial attempt
She soon bursts forth into 'full throated' song
Creating such sweet vibes of warm feeling
And producing in me an instant healing
Nay, she sets my soul on fire
And swallows me whole
Creating in me an eternal longing
To hear her pour out that celestial melody
Sitting in some far fringe of Heaven
To make me lose myself within myself
And slosh my soul in mad ecstasy!
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
We drink. We love. We drink to pretend we have love. We fake love to feel loved. We know very well what we are doing. We have no idea what we are doing. We gather in groups. We push outsiders out. We know very well what we are doing. We can’t get a hold of what we are doing. We hate each other. We hate ourselves. We hate outsiders. We love our lives. We very well might hate our lives. Stockholm. We drink. We love. We **** ourselves.
We slosh through days. We get sloshed through days. We could be certain that we love the way we slosh through sloshy days and pretend that we have it under control. We have it under control. Do we have it under control? In thirty years there will be a phenomenon. We will all drop dead. We will all drop dead and we will think back to this time when we hated how much we loved our lives because we loved the very lives that allowed us to hate each other and wish we were the outsiders. We push away the outsiders. We are killing ourselves.
Then there are those who are unaware. There are those who might be naïve enough to think this is how the rest of our lives will play out. There are those who believe that the rest of their lives will consist of sloshing through sloshy days and pretending they aren’t killing themselves. And then there are those who very well might have the lives that allow them to slosh through, living and dying because we are killing ourselves. Peter Pans. They will not make it to thirty years before dropping dead. It won’t be a phenomenon at all. They will **** themselves. The outsiders will live on.
We do not know what love is because love is sloshy. Love is sloshy because our minds are sloshed. We pretend that what we feel is love. We pretend that these people are our friends and our lovers and they watch us **** ourselves and they **** themselves and we are all dying together. We are dying for love. We are dying to live. So we slosh through our sloshy days seriously not giving a **** that we are dying. Seriously giving too many ***** about what others think. Seriously ******* around. ******* around is serious business. ******* each other. ******* up. ******* ******* ******* We are killing our plans. We are killing ourselves.
We know very well what we are doing. Except the few that have no idea what they are doing. We live in the moment and pretend not to notice that in thirty years we will all drop dead and the outsiders will live on and love because we kept them out. We kept them out and saved their lives. They resented us because we ***** up and ***** around and ***** each other but we never ***** them and it saved their lives. We resent them because they live. We pretend we do not resent them because we think they don’t live. They don’t live like we do.
We pretend to love our lives. We love our lives. We think we love our lives. We do not know what love is because we are ******* We do not know what love is because all we do is ***** We do not know what love is because we are dying and we know very well that we aren’t well, so we hurt each other and pretend that it is the outsiders we hate. Pretend that we don’t envy them because they aren’t dying.
Some will get by. Some have plans and money and parents to put their screws back where they belong, so that their bookshelf can hold up the book of their life that was written for them. They will live on and slosh through their lives and make money and make babies and make fake substance. They will get married and get jobs and get divorced and get depressed. But they will be rich. Their lives will not be rich. They will be rich but they will lack richness. These people will have everything. These people will have nothing. I will have nothing. But I will have everything. If I do not **** myself the way that we are killing ourselves.
Why does time ***** us over? Everything is changing. Everything is staying the same. People are sloshing by with their sloshy minds. It will remain this way. The way it has remained this way for as long as we can remember it remaining this way. We have terrible memories. We have wonderful memories. We have these memories and then we have some memories that we cannot remember. We will get by. We will get out. We do not want to get out. We do not have a choice. Do we have a choice? I need to get out.
We do not want to leave the lives we hate but love because we are sloshing through and pretending we are rich. We are not rich. We are salty. We are salty and messy but we are happy. Are we happy? I am happy. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I slosh through my sloshy life and wish it were over. I never want it to end. I am the some that are naïve enough to have hoped this would last forever. We are the Peter Pans. If we never grow old we can never drop dead and blame it on the time when we hated that we loved this sloshy exclusive mayhem that we call life. I survived my youth, I will get out. I do not want to get out. I hate the love I pretend to love because I hate that I love it so much. Stockholm.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
Barry’s dead.
I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.
Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.
Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******
That’s the story of your life –
All
most
man.
Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…
I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.
Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:
For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
drunk woodland children, we
ask so many questions, we
firefly skin. the picnic table beneath
our lamps, our ouija board, our girlfriends
next to us warm and laughing.
stories:
we tell stories to scare eachother
before descending into our tents
on the outer darks.
sweet night nothings.
& everythings.
i’m consumed by dreams of you;
somehow running;
somehow ******* my way out of my own inevitable
death.
a lady bug wing half-yanked and humming.
wind scorpion.
mosquito
in the early morning buzz, and i roll over
to see your puffy little sleeping face ::: sunlight there.
limp beyond the tent and zipper.
we eat mayo sharp cheddar salami wheat sammies
& take acid.
everyone one else goes on a group nature-hike,
but i stay behind
hallucinating of my dead mother in those sequined clothes she used to wear.
::: we play scrabble and talk,
until she leaves.
like love.
like guitar strummed chords and many hydrations later –
my tribe returns,
with fish.
the girl i love.
you/she roll joints in your lap,
in my lap,
in a chair and i mirage
the faces of everyone through glass &
slosh; through campfire
& lemonade.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
Whatever the cost I pay up at the minnow pools.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.
Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.
It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.
Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.
Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Are we conducting a robot?
To write off our life slosh,
As we detach to explore...
Are you scared of the person behind you in dream décor?
The sweetness of them, supple, sincere and secure, I won’t turn from them anymore...
I want a space that suits my body, and a body that shapes my suit.
Drooping with these screens, we could be using our screen eyes and bodies...
But we’re biting on borrowed time. Focus on my face and timeline...
When we fully take over, they won’t stop these ache-numb, religious-atheist, vicious silverfish, who don’t think but spin beauty... Spill blood and **** feeling, chase silent moments...
If we lose our memory-doubt-history cycle, get lost and find ourselves in the deeper summer night cycle...
We are with the second sight phoenix heads, playing gold scores piercingly, growing as swimmer-dancers in wonder of the pieces of wild peace, new-vital...
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC
a man has eaten a nail. he must bed before it’s too late a woman with a breadboard back. the man’s brother is married to such a woman, but does not know it. the brother’s tongue is raw and wouldn’t know good eating were it a thumbtack in a lover’s heel. the man decides to lounge hungrily in the slim wardrobe of his brother’s shadow. the man will drink it like milk and let it slosh in his gut for three weekends. the wife will shine more and more light on her husband; she will bend reading lamps around corners and forget she has things to do. she will have well lit dreams of a man she can sense is behind her. her husband will run from the light and she will jump on his back. the man will come to this empty house and he will be angry and because of his stomach he will need to call someone. until then, imagine we are in a box held by a thief.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
*slosh of oars
ripples the night
of tremulous moons
the nightjar soars
on silver light
a sad tune croons!
tides up swell
lap the wood
in ceaseless kiss
moon grows pale
in deep brood
of broken wish
the misty haze
spells the core
spins a dream
mind in daze
forgets shore
drifts upstream!*
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
*A mother whose mothers' been denounced
blacklist foreseen upon kismet and luck
how the nag strikes bards' such as self
Slosh, quaff, toss off this elapsed bête noire
Repair, reconstruct it wanes with healing
No more sip from the ***
Resort to daft calls toward the sky
Resort to daft kneeling
I am this staunch daughter, a passerby*
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 3:12 AM UTC
He dreamt he was Sappho's trusted companion,
To whom she shared her love's poetic lessons.
And then came this moment of revelation;
He longed to be a woman and make love to her.
Things are not as they seem at the outset,
That part of him madly in love with Sappho"s secrets
Didn't really know is it her body, soul or poetry
That made him go mad with an intoxicating pleasure.
The other part of him in love with himself more,
Protested"I desire her like a man does a woman"
Love is insane often, it is hidden within the masks worn.
In every passionate love affair, is a river of fire to cross.
Love puts him in a dilemma,without any resolve at sight.
In a life ensconced in fantasy, he is steeped in a love stupor
If ever he again wakes up, he'll try to make lasting peace,
Slosh in the poetic wine of Sappho and desire her all the more.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
You win.
You draw me in.
I'm trapped again
inside this Heavenly Hell.
A lovely, torturous place
where visions of what was
and what might be
dangle like hooks
that pierce my heart,
A solitary utopia,
where stained glass dreams
slosh throughout
my whimsical mind.
I enjoy
the ******* burning
of the sensual fire
that destroys me
in the most magical way
until I
once again
fall from your grace.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
water's gravity
moors me to this dome's prison.
washing me to plush blue
is the dream of hands
that puts me out of my sleep's premises.
the bane of existence tingles
the flesh and the suds rise
altogether with the squalor
of its own meaning.
my old hue languishes into
a burgeon of slosh and no friction
nor word could rupture me anymore.
and the scent dangles
mid-air, where all perfumes are born, with sorry fountainheads
peaking through the ordeal
of this sonata.
water makes music with skin
as froth takes to sea, the exhaustion of brine -
all disquiet in foreword
and finality
hung clean, in the backyard
of ordinariness, of consummate asepsis and its breakable concepts,
ready to be worn out
by a day's grime and back to
its fate once more, all of us.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Twenty men stand watching the muckers.
Stabbing the sides of the ditch
Where clay gleams yellow,
Driving the blades of their shovels
Deeper and deeper for the new gas mains
Wiping sweat off their faces
With red bandanas
The muckers work on... pausing... to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.
Of the twenty looking on
Ten murmer, "O, its a hell of a job,"
Ten others, "Jesus, I wish I had the job."
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***Turning the tide above my bed
Thoughts of you slosh around inside my head
I smile and you smile
Looking at the future
And the way we come together
Sewing the past up like a suture
Bandaids and burn scars could never stop our motion
Not while these thoughts of you in my head, girl, are steady as an ocean
We sway this way and that on the waves of our songs
And though others call us different, we know we're not wrong
How could we be?
When we feel so right in each other's arms
You're the tide in my head Renmar
Protecting me from harm***
I hope I never wash ashore
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC