"spicket" poems - Hello Poetry

Take your bucket Shiny and new, Over to the spicket. Now, Try and turn it on, Get all the water You can Sometimes, It’s going to be A nice stream Other times Drops, If anything. Now, Don’t be alarmed We’ve all been there. Now, Sometimes, You can’t bring yourself To carry the bucket So take a rag, Wet it all you’re willing Back to the bucket Squeeze in what you can Rinse Repeat Until Satisfaction. Sometimes, There will be too much water All at once The bucket Will fill Will overflow Will spill. Take a breath, In Out Take a step back Reclaim The situation Make the bucket Yours again. It’s only a bucket afterall Right? My advice? Don’t show off The bucket It’s yours Only yours And no one else cares. What they care about? How you use the bucket. To nourish Or To horde.

0

Jun 19, 2018

Jun 19, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC

dwheat

Ode to Wisdom

Take your bucket Shiny and new, Over to the spicket. Now, Try and turn it on, Get all the water You can Sometimes, It’s going to be A nice stream Other times Drops, If anything. Now, Don’t be alarmed We’ve all been there. Now, Sometimes, You can’t bring yourself To carry the bucket So take a rag, Wet it all you’re willing Back to the bucket Squeeze in what you can Rinse Repeat Until Satisfaction. Sometimes, There will be too much water All at once The bucket Will fill Will overflow Will spill. Take a breath, In Out Take a step back Reclaim The situation Make the bucket Yours again. It’s only a bucket afterall Right? My advice? Don’t show off The bucket It’s yours Only yours And no one else cares. What they care about? How you use the bucket. To nourish Or To horde.

56

My hand rests here upon this blank form the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb and I but await, the form that it should bear The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines That shall stem and grow upon this paper. Sometimes, I am not here at all It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace. Little child like figures wave between the interplay This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter where the revenue of the flow but draws Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels momentum springs but it's eternal sight to peer over and across the facade of time And jots a line or two of verse. Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer who's image fades to the mighty word and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries That reason holds no power here. I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls some faded harmony of a promised bliss that vanishes amidst the shadows of night To leave but it's haunting cry. There I peer down the lane of the centuries Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth. I wonder how their pens but scribbled How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought. Alisdaire O'Caoimph

0

Mar 19, 2011

Mar 19, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC

alisdaire-ocaoimph

Ravished the thought

My hand rests here upon this blank form the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb and I but await, the form that it should bear The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines That shall stem and grow upon this paper. Sometimes, I am not here at all It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace. Little child like figures wave between the interplay This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter where the revenue of the flow but draws Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels momentum springs but it's eternal sight to peer over and across the facade of time And jots a line or two of verse. Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer who's image fades to the mighty word and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries That reason holds no power here. I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls some faded harmony of a promised bliss that vanishes amidst the shadows of night To leave but it's haunting cry. There I peer down the lane of the centuries Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth. I wonder how their pens but scribbled How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought. Alisdaire O'Caoimph

34

I take salt shakers to the water spicket and I make my own oceans. Tide lines have eroded themselves into my waist. I know all of the sea monsters by name. I don’t want to submarine again. I don’t want to grow sea **** in my lungs again. There are cyclones I have made with my red and pruned toes because I make what I am. I scratch at my skin. Clammy and white. I peel off layers. I am only trying to baptize myself again. I am only trying to baptize myself again. Salty and stinging my eyes. I am only trying to clean myself off again. I am only trying to clean myself off again. Sitting in my own oceans.

0

Jul 10, 2013

Jul 10, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC

ella-snyder

My Own Oceans

I take salt shakers to the water spicket and I make my own oceans. Tide lines have eroded themselves into my waist. I know all of the sea monsters by name. I don’t want to submarine again. I don’t want to grow sea **** in my lungs again. There are cyclones I have made with my red and pruned toes because I make what I am. I scratch at my skin. Clammy and white. I peel off layers. I am only trying to baptize myself again. I am only trying to baptize myself again. Salty and stinging my eyes. I am only trying to clean myself off again. I am only trying to clean myself off again. Sitting in my own oceans.

15

The tension in my third eye is unbearable Most of you could never relate. But my understanding of the universe is comparable to the phrase "you've got to much on your plate" I've taken it upon myself to Remove emotional chains To let go of anger and hate and to release all of my pains. I've decided to open my mind No longer will judgment dwell there. I am still looking for what I will find When I learn what it means to truly care. I want a meanfull life, to live how I want I want to balance my thoughts and never give up I want to offer love and warmth a Godly presence I want to be a person of large reverence. I am doing the work I am disciplining my mind. i am reading and studying, quieting time. I am attempting and failing soon I will find, A warm place inside me that is all mine. But the tension in my body is unbearable. The energy coursing through me is comparable To a spicket that is set on full I've opened my eyes and ripped off the wool. I want to live Consciously No More Impulsive Instinct.

0

Mar 5, 2017

Mar 5, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC

halleydavis

Awaken

The tension in my third eye is unbearable Most of you could never relate. But my understanding of the universe is comparable to the phrase "you've got to much on your plate" I've taken it upon myself to Remove emotional chains To let go of anger and hate and to release all of my pains. I've decided to open my mind No longer will judgment dwell there. I am still looking for what I will find When I learn what it means to truly care. I want a meanfull life, to live how I want I want to balance my thoughts and never give up I want to offer love and warmth a Godly presence I want to be a person of large reverence. I am doing the work I am disciplining my mind. i am reading and studying, quieting time. I am attempting and failing soon I will find, A warm place inside me that is all mine. But the tension in my body is unbearable. The energy coursing through me is comparable To a spicket that is set on full I've opened my eyes and ripped off the wool. I want to live Consciously No More Impulsive Instinct.

24