"smushy" poems - Hello Poetry

No town homes in my hometown We throw up and we throw down Drinks pour up, tears pour down No outlet in this port town Glass crumbs and shards elephant-skinned sidewalks smeared with tomato paste the streets remember potato-tipped death machines starchy falsetto bullets the cracking window skull smushy hamburger meat brain meet bullet—meet steering wheel—meet ster e o my little brother stays in a shelter on American and California where babies sit themselves change is a dollar short and DST stands for daylight shootings time Grandfather time please stroke your shredded wheat goatee just a little longer postpone apocalyptic soon the children will hop skotch on chalked body silhouettes and jumprope with bungie cord intestines But not him my little commando he will find a way out depart from home plate three strikes carved on a flaming chariot soaring through the sky like barbasol jet streams the great escape

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Apr 14, 2013

Apr 14, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC

mark-anthony-gavigan

The Great Escape

No town homes in my hometown We throw up and we throw down Drinks pour up, tears pour down No outlet in this port town Glass crumbs and shards elephant-skinned sidewalks smeared with tomato paste the streets remember potato-tipped death machines starchy falsetto bullets the cracking window skull smushy hamburger meat brain meet bullet—meet steering wheel—meet ster e o my little brother stays in a shelter on American and California where babies sit themselves change is a dollar short and DST stands for daylight shootings time Grandfather time please stroke your shredded wheat goatee just a little longer postpone apocalyptic soon the children will hop skotch on chalked body silhouettes and jumprope with bungie cord intestines But not him my little commando he will find a way out depart from home plate three strikes carved on a flaming chariot soaring through the sky like barbasol jet streams the great escape

38

Each pad sinks deeper into the soft smushy, slush that was once hard like Oak paneling in an old farm house. The snow melts into calm reflecting pools but constant spring is not a blessing to the pink skin underpainting of the great white bear. He is not in a gold rush, or a hurry, but he cannot swim forever. The rising tides will bring the whales closer, and only leave oil and Caribou behind. What shoes should you wear when the ice goes renegade and leaves you all but stranded on a liquid isle? Polar bears do not dock their boats in Bernard Harbor, so check your snow shoes at the door and be prepared for pirates. For when deer jump eight feet into pools, predators should still know how to hunt.

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Aug 11, 2011

Aug 11, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC

shannon-mcgovern

There's no such Thing as Global Warming

Each pad sinks deeper into the soft smushy, slush that was once hard like Oak paneling in an old farm house. The snow melts into calm reflecting pools but constant spring is not a blessing to the pink skin underpainting of the great white bear. He is not in a gold rush, or a hurry, but he cannot swim forever. The rising tides will bring the whales closer, and only leave oil and Caribou behind. What shoes should you wear when the ice goes renegade and leaves you all but stranded on a liquid isle? Polar bears do not dock their boats in Bernard Harbor, so check your snow shoes at the door and be prepared for pirates. For when deer jump eight feet into pools, predators should still know how to hunt.

24

Drink dead moths darling, in smushy twilight. There's its grave in our closet against the milky Red sky. Dreams of a young man in a splinter of Night, submits his shadows for reasons, some Sell their dues for new lives. Incredible yawns Child- is your hero a leaf or the tree? Is it a Haunting First Nation People omitted by Sulking owls for breezes. Yore the mountains Can't long now, helter skelter near or afar, some Sell their poisons, others chisel their bark. And the hide is entrenched now, it's nearly six in the dawn, where the white women wake to the Weeping hearts read in palms. If the desert Should call us, back to roots that won't grow, Take your devils and walk with me in a plastic Flower grove. Wolves and a memory, calls for Many too late, sorrow switches the time stamp Where forever we played, and tonight no one Watches, tonight we the buffalo cry, and some Chase silver-dollars for the truth in their time. In their time, in their time. Someone far far away. Lest our treasures grow weary, as we forget how we played, some sunny day. Some winter day, far far away. Farther and farther from the things we once slayed.

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Apr 2, 2017

Apr 2, 2017 at 7:08 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Death's Head Acoustic

Drink dead moths darling, in smushy twilight. There's its grave in our closet against the milky Red sky. Dreams of a young man in a splinter of Night, submits his shadows for reasons, some Sell their dues for new lives. Incredible yawns Child- is your hero a leaf or the tree? Is it a Haunting First Nation People omitted by Sulking owls for breezes. Yore the mountains Can't long now, helter skelter near or afar, some Sell their poisons, others chisel their bark. And the hide is entrenched now, it's nearly six in the dawn, where the white women wake to the Weeping hearts read in palms. If the desert Should call us, back to roots that won't grow, Take your devils and walk with me in a plastic Flower grove. Wolves and a memory, calls for Many too late, sorrow switches the time stamp Where forever we played, and tonight no one Watches, tonight we the buffalo cry, and some Chase silver-dollars for the truth in their time. In their time, in their time. Someone far far away. Lest our treasures grow weary, as we forget how we played, some sunny day. Some winter day, far far away. Farther and farther from the things we once slayed.

1