"sloshes" poems
sometimes i dont eat
the longest i've gone
is three weeks
i lay in bed ,my stomach in knots
cant stand up too quickly
dont wanna see spots
my body failed me again
bile came, hunger left
i cant quite remember when
water is my only friend
it soothes the hurt
acid reflux temporarily ends
water runs down my throat
when i move, it sloshes in my belly
sound like waves against a boat
heartburn comes at night
my body and brain are at war
im kept awake while they fight
headaches come back
it hurts to open my eyes
i know its from the calories i lack
when i can handle a taste other then bile
i eat and eat , i'm called a pork chop
i know its a joke so i hide the pain with a smile
if only they knew
how i hate my body
and the pants sizes i blew
but its something i keep to myself
no need to bother someone else
its not like am a fragile doll on a shelf
....or am I ?
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
The 'wheel of Dharma' with eight spokes leads from the front,
I bow to the Buddha's 'eightfold path' and walk forward,
My love, the octopus, my 'dharma consort'; I didn't choose her myself,
her eight hands passionately sought me and found ,
I surrendered to the possibility of abundant caresses.
Her eight lithe hands, touch and tangle me, sloshing her love.
A journey man I am, a humble seeker too, walking sun splashed paths,
equally in love with dusky night and moon beams tender.
When I am in pain and distress, any one's fate in this planet,
she transforms to love eightfold and more, scented breeze at my bedside.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.
Note** of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
Where's Grandpa?
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
Splish splash splish splash
Into the water
My paddles crash
Neither a care nor a bother
Gliding along
I listen to the river's song
My mind it soothes
My soul it moves
Silver flashes
As a drum flits by
And otter play
So pleasing to my eye
Water sloshes against my boat
While I watch an eagle fly
Man I love to float
Muddy waters flow on by
Man I love to float
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
I'm irritated and I'll
pour this bowl
of wrath on all
the things
around me
punch holes and
shiver through
the sudden bleak
Emptiness
around me
fill it back up
with liquor until it
sloshes away down this
knife hole and it
clatters to the ground
even though it's got my
fingerprints on it
I can wince through these
tears and cover it because
I'm irritated
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
my feet hurts from running
from running to and away
from the twigs and stones on the path
from the memories of the past
from the harsh wind of reality.
my feet hurts from running
from running in dark tunnels
of thoughts and things
better stay hidden.
my feet hurts from running
from running away from ink that sloshes on paper
and harsh lines replacing letters.
my feet hurts from running
i'm not running
my footsteps are fading into the space
of clogged arteries
and twisted veins from trying to keep
from running,
i should stop running.
pacing, pacing, pacing
walking around eggshells
tiptoeing around broken glass shards
of what is and
what is now.
now is reality,
today i start walking to my destiny
facing head-on trucks with blaring music of
THIS IS THE END trying to run me over.
my feet are hurting
from staying planted on the cement floor
as trucks try to run me over
and crows perch on branches
waiting to feed on my carcass
and my feet are hurting,
from finally realising that this is how it should be.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
The condensation slowly begins
To eat a hole in
The cotton of my jeans
And I've been through this enough
To know
I'm not alone in it
But I can't help but feel empty.
The dripping grass emits it's gasses
filling the air with the sweet smell of
freedom and October;
The plants releasing their last breath into the world
before the snow comes
and brings death upon us all.
Even in this facade of freedom I feel trapped
Caging myself within the confines of a small
One-bedroom apartment that's supposed to be "home".
The soaking corpses of thriving flowers
and the sweet tickle of chirping crickets
are drowned out by the overwhelming sadness
that's begun to overthrow my lungs,
echoing throughout my limbs as it
sloshes through my eardrums and soaks my shoes
Dear god, why am I still hurting?
It's been 9 years and I still can't escape.
This depression has stolen every last part of me.
Until it's all I have left.
And yes, out here, I feel free
Away from the judgement
Where no one can touch me
Connected with the Earth
Simply observing all that surrounds me.
And of course I can hide from my anxiety
But even feeling the cleanest sand between my feet
And deafening my mind with these crashing waves around me
I can't run from the demons eating at the tatters of my soul
Because they will find a way to lure me back in
To disconnect me from the beauty that surrounds me
Leaving me dying alone on the cold, dark concrete
that lines my broken memories
Bleeding out these sins until I no longer feel empty
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Drip, Drop, Drip Drop,
The bucket sloshes,
The old woman kneels
To clean the threshold
of the ones she serves
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop,
The bucket sloshes
She thinks on her past
And her life and her hopes
her dreams, her last
husband long gone
her friends who’ve been near
her enemies who’ve hurt her,
those she holds dear
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop
The bucket sloshes,
She washes away
She sets herself to work
and begins to pray
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop
The bucket sloshes,
As she moves down the hall
Her heart, it labors,
as she scrubs at the floor
the billows of her breath
begin to bore
into her hands
she can work no more
she needs a small break
to labor without work
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop
She weeps for those who have not drawn near,
For those who are hurting, and lonely, and fear
She will stay forever, in her master’s doorway,
She would rather die, than never have stayed
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop,
The bucket sloshes,
her made clean heart aches,
is comforted by
a sovereign king’s ways
trials and terrors and toil and sin
good he has planned,
don’t let uncertainty win
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop,
The bucket sloshes,
She goes back to work
To labor and love,
The last to the first
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
The rain
slops upon
the concrete,
washing.
It washes
away what we
cannot see
and sloshes
the ground
in merriment.
I hear it
drench
the toughened
soul and
soften the
pine.
The drumming
hum of rain
on the sill
sends
slumber
to even
the restless.
And the soft
lustre
after a fall
in which
the world
sparkles,
causes
even the hardest
hearts to glow
gold.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
*the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me*
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
There is a stirring in my chest,
an elation I will not and cannot resist.
There was once a moment where all of life stood still
and my feet grew heavy
barren heavy.
Completely empty
and ready to fall.
There is a fire down below
where the depths of sight can’t grow.
It still feeds off my worried brain
like a fetus planted hover-vein.
The Venus Fly Trap sets its will
spiked teeth ready, for the ****
There is a place where spider webs
and crawling things fit for nub ebb.
All my flagrant floppy body
deteriorates, demotivates, deregulates
into a monster of the fiendish kind
one where holographic glass goes blind.
there is a feed that ***** in silt
it still eats grits, their shiny pelt
slimy, sloshes, ready, in
frigid waters’ under-grin.
Come follow me, dear Venus Trap
into a submarine unsnap
there is a blooming in my groin
where dead things lay there
shivering.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Mmm, the sound babies make
before they know how to speak.
Small murmurs in the dark, waiting for light through the window.
I try to follow the recipe:
Hazelnut, flour, pretense.
Stir, stir, stir.
I hear the radio from the living room:
Silent night, o holy night
My mother sleeps on the sofa,
and she’ll sleep until the light comes through the window.
Coffee sloshes against the back of my teeth like whistling wind on a train through Mumbai, and I hear the voice in the back of my head:
Take your mother to India before she dies.
Eggs, butter, time: whip and stir.
I am trying myself to bake the cake for my mother’s birthday. She deserves so much.
I think of the summer in the south
The neighbor with the baby
The mother wailing
I can’t do this I can’t do this
And I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head:
If you want something done right,
do it yourself.
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 4:10 PM UTC
I sit on my back porch.
With the fire pit roasting at my feet,
keeping me warm and comfortable
as the rain washes away my worries.
The white wicker chair
old, but strong
cradles me into a cocoon
as my blanket hugs me.
The fire twinkling in the dark of the evening,
pruning my feet like the sun does to raisins.
Its flickers and waves amuse my eyes
as I feel its flames tell me a story.
The moon and stars,
as old as they are, still shining bright.
My friends that I look up to from time to time.
for clarity and wisdom, and are not thanked enough.
I listen closely to the rain’s rhythm on the tin roof
as it sloshes its way through the clogged gutters,
to the sound it makes when it hits the concrete ground.
The sound lures me into a new… better world.
Here,
in this place of love, ease, understanding, welcomes, and real friends
there is no worry, no stress, no judgment, no guilt or pressure,
just the perfect place to be when the real world isn’t perfect
… Although eventually, you will have to return.
But for now
I feel the playful gestures of the flame’s warmth, wisp along my feet.
I listen to the soothing harmonies and captivating rhythms of the rain.
I watch the sun turn into a bright full moon and the clouds turn into sparkling dancing stars.
This is where
I want to be.
I dream to be.
I live to be.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
Pure, collapsible, indisputable.
Oozing inside with purpose.
Vicious slime invades the orifice.
****** and pulsing;
unfiltered specks;
all untarnished space.
This sprawl leaves it's mark;
stains like blood
or coffee as it drips;
collected into vats;
like flies in the ointment.
The nature of the beast moves quickly:
video games or junk food.
On our eyes simulated,
stimulated, embossed on our souls.
Spoon fed groomed inspiration
pumps direct.
Into sacks of meat
vacant gunk sloshes.
Glommed onto cells,
demanding position.
Consumes virtual reality,
the avatars,
our status,
updated or not.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Our brains are fragile things, seventy percent which is water,
and It sloshes around in our skull. Sixty percent of the brain is made of fat.
There are one hundred thousand miles of blood vessels in our brain.
The brain consists of about one hundred billion neurons.
There are anywhere from one thousand to ten thousand synapses for each neuron.
The brain weighs three pounds. From all of this emanates our mind/sentience/us. No one knows how or why this happens. The brain takes photons, packets of energy and converts them into the universe. The brain fills in the blanks for missing information to give the mind an organized view. No one knows how this is done.
The brain can create all types of minds some genius some insane and everything in between. Our minds are fragile things. A crossed wire here a short circuit there in the brain can mess up our minds.
The brain is like a projector projecting the mind/sentience/us back into the space it observes. When the brain
evaporates so does the projection? No one knows, truly, what do we really know at all?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
The rising water is unstoppable
no matter how often it breaks
into wide waves on the beach
The sun is half an hour
above the horizon, hand in hand
we walk in blowing clothes
into our evening off
My hair dances
In the boat at the end
of the pier we kiss
like teenagers, the water sloshes
and the sky turns orange
With my own eyes I see
the sun set, tack-sharp
and I can only think
that the earth ends there
as a worldwide disk
with an edge, an abyss
in which the red-hot sun
briefly blazes up the fire
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 6:32 AM UTC
Careening moonlight
You show me what I once
Thought was right
I drink now for the sake of mankind
The bullet casings reflect the
Sun as the wine in my cup
Sloshes from right to left and
My own life is not my own -
A price to pay for theft
I love you
You make me
The way I am
And I press my mind
To these keys
And realize everything and
Nothing in the end will
Be alright
In solitude
I pray to creation
Seeing that life is merely
A bottle
And when its empty
It ain't worth a ****
Tasting the stars in their
Brilliance of absence
I recollect my own upbringing
And remember my hallow mother
Singing her nightly hymns
But to begin with memories are
To step in the backgrounds of
Imaginations personal horrors, own borrows,
The lonely tunnels of a city long since dead
That instead of exhaling we try
Inhaling; pressing Death right back
I am young
I am old
I am a story
That has already
Been told
Yet I
Live on
I smile
I smell the scents
Of a world gone and
Past and taste at last
The current of the river
The wind of the crass
A life that has
Already ended
But has no ambition
To Pass
Self held in my own vices
The upstate prices of page to brain
Makes me shutter as the gutter
Winces in its realizations of the brandishing
Blade of the horses with their war
My existence presses Her finger upon
The broken page of the unstoppable cops
Where I stop to think where then my
Life - though good - has spoiled quite abrupt
Oh to obey in sun struck love
Where the only thing that is real is above
But anything I recall I forget
A smile that says to me "not yet"
I once thought I was close
But see now
I am so far away
If asked to stay
I don't know what I'd say
Each countless pride
Has its side
Just like the ocean in Her majesty
And unseen tides
Again
I slip into a smile
A false breathe
As I take my body back
In high stealth
Asking myself
*What exactly
Is the matter?*
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC
Hold me tonight.
I'm shaking and I can't sit still.
My sadness bounces off the walls.
It echos in my mind and settles in my chest.
It's heavy and it sloshes in my lungs.
Steals my breath and robs me of my smile.
My fingers twitch with wanting.
For something to hold on to.
So I can keep from falling off the edge.
Into the empty caverns that sit behind my eyes.
My lips quiver.
They feel bare without a cigarette pressed between them.
Letting me breathe again if only for a moment.
A moment so wonderfully deadly.
That I never want it to end.
Hold me tonight.
Before I slip away.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
I've got a glass of wine in one hand, while I'm trying to keep my balance, as I take my socks off with the other. I stumble, and land abruptly on my bed. Half a glass of Merlot sloshes onto my cream colored cloth sheets and I slur some sounds, shooting for 'shit' and 'damn'.
Lily takes her heels off downstairs and creeps up to my room; she moves easily, as if hovering a few inches above the ground as to not let a single sound reach my bludgeoned ears until she laid down beside me. As she began to loosen my tie she pecked softly at every inch of my newly exposed neck, tender, and begging.
My eyes flutter as she whispers,or whimpers (I can't tell)
*I know no one's perfect,
but why do you gotta act so far from it?
Jesuit, you're desolate, but I don't know
where I'm going, and I'm slowly dying.
I know that we make
bad choices in mates and you're a mistake,
but I'm lost as to what the cost might be
because right now you're so good for me
and I think I can carry that weight.*
Lily,
I've learned a great deal about love and languages tonight.
Just barely masked by metaphor, I couldn't think of a more cliche
way of saying I love you.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC
I have a bashed-up coffee donker,
From too hard and too much dinking —
It sits there, next to my retro, white barista-chine*,
On my movable wine bar,
Slash coffee trolley cart;
My all-in-one entertainment scene.
Where, previously, I had a silver aluminium bucket
Storing all my coffee sloshes.
It seemed like a convenient (cheaper) way
To free my frustrations fancifully —
I could have gone to a firing range,
Or let some golf ***** fly,
Usually though,
I just internalise the anxiety and rage —
But, life is fragile
Like a china tea cup cracked —
Do we hold on to these crooked pieces,
Like we hold our inner wounds,
Hoping to mend them one day —
something sentimental?
Mindful?
Frugal?!
Precious.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
Petals
Under all skies you need an umbrella made from perennial flowers that can block cruel rays and in
Stormy weather they become a colorful shield arrayed as a ghost army standing on a hill the colors
Of their banners are richly flowing they reach out over the former battle field in the valley a solemnity
Is carried to lofty heights revering the fallen honoring those who stand and await the next call to
Sacrifice this is your awareness under your slight canopy of blushing colors blues at the center are deep
And rich that suggest deep springs as you retrieve this bucket and it sloshes out over the side the closer
It gets to the surface the blue lightens to sky blue at the tips wondrous calm it delivers with a pulsating
Surging that invigorates the whole being of a sojourner without map and compass you tread to the
Beyond where you will find designs and integrity that is sweeping and bold a bag of tricks left by
Mother Nature when she was the lone interior decorator of earth’s natural places she received her
Genius from the same one that gave flowers their fragrance everything holds sun light delicately some is
Lighting others is for splitting light into light and shadow creating just the right effect a soothe that is
As big as the earth’s circumference with the tiniest touches the blooming draws the burnished brown
Sand from desert stores to the sheer grey granite mountain’s alluring views across vistas to the blue
Great waters shores an earthy child an her mother has just strolled through the comforts of your mind
And soul just a slight gust of wind to stir you to wonder about the blessing that are all around even in
The mix of life’s woes you are told you are loved and have a future flowers rain clouds sunshine they
Are just part of a promise largely told so you can walk with lions bold and shake off the tremble and
strain that sometimes arise out of a fallen world
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
The boiling water
Sloshes around
In the mug,
Dissolving the coffee
grains into a
Pool of liquid luxury.
As the mug touches my lips,
Letting the bitter sweet
Coffee trickle into my mouth,
I remember how good,
Despite my problems,
I really have it in life.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
You werent there when I needed you most
I was never as much your son as a ghost
Drowning in the depths of severe mental afflictions
Oh don't I know this sensation so well
When everything seems to grind to a halt
While you languish inside your own hell
There is an unbelievable sense of friction
A feeling something close to nuclear fission
When we cannot break the surface
To find our sense of clarity and sanity
We struggle to survive at an unsafe depth
Where the pressure is so great we lose any sense of vanity
Where the darkness soaks into your soul with every breath
And you cannot understand how your existence has any purpose
I felt my mind slowly slipping so I swam into its sea
My bones are rusting from the acid in the mix
There is no escaping this you are sick until you die
There is no tonic or sensible quick fix
You are condemned to the dark until you cease to be
This disorder is a tragedy and i think its killing me
I'm loathe to fill my lungs with the death that exists here
But we don't have a choice; our fates are sealed
We stand out like rusted giants our sickness can't be concealed
And we live with the things that saturate us with fear
We are barely any better than the rest that exist here
We are legion but in reality we're alone
We are ****** and we are learning we can't make it on our own
We are barely treading water and so we drown
And we are taken by the sickness without resistance, without sound
I know that at any given point if I look around
I will find someone else who is on the journey down
To the blackest ocean in existence
This ocean cannot be discovered or found
It sloshes in the darkest places where you fall with little resistance
It takes you and it chokes the life out of your soul
It drowns you in sorrow so complete and so cold
And keeps you in its depths until death
Only then might your soul get a rest
But something in my heart makes me doubt it
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC