"sprinkler" poems
Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.
Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.
It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.
Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.
Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.
So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.
What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.
The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.
No one saw.
Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.
You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Dragonflies
zipping through
the rainbow
made by
the backyard sprinkler
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
breaking ice in my mineral water
lime spritzing the air and
dripping down my fingertips
as i twist it and sip its tang
hot sunlight radiating on my
body until the sweat glistens
at even the slightest movement
the rustle of well-worn pages
his sharp Adam's apple
rolls ever so slightly with a swallow
of the sparkling glass
the bubbles, like tiny diamonds
the hiss of the sprinkler next door
and the squealing chortles
of the neighbor kids running in it
chocolate melting on my tongue
chair squeaking when I recline
Happy is as happy does, but
I'm thankful happy's mine.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
A buttercup was beautifying
for the afternoon dance
her cheeks were flushed with water
the garden sprinkler had thrown on.
Her petals were fully stretched to a softness
that even the butterflies slipped when they trod upon.
the sun beams bounced off on the mirrored smoothness
and a bumblebee looked on hovering above with second thoughts
envying her golden locks.
She bathed in the sunlight turning every cheek for the warm rays
batting her long anthers dipped with thick orange powder.
I watched her shake her hips to the folk wind tunes
tip toeing into my heart
slowly
her yellow liquid lined eyes delving mine
making me smile
when I have almost forgotten how.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Let's get back to the lazy days of summer
Where time stands still
Where we sit in the shade with our popsicles
and ice cream until we get our fill
Sip on some sweet tea and have a little picnic
or lay in a hammock reading with my sidekick
Where we walk around barefoot on the freshly cut lawn
or turn on the sprinkler for the kids to get their jump on
Where we watch the bees and butterflies flit and fly around
and listen to the whippoorwill's calling sound
Once God turns off the light we catch lightning bugs in jars
then lay back with our lover and count the stars
Let's get back to the lazy days of summer
Where time stands still
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Nobody got anywhere in this life
throttling bums,
and robbing hotdog vendors,
but a Saquatch eating a knish on top of a flipped bus
is a sight that sticks to the roof of your minds eye.
Let's eat caramel apples down by the seawall,
trade tall tales, and lizard scales,
run for the hills, but settle down in the shadow of the valley.
Prickly pear and agave nectar, nopal cactus fruit,
blended together, you can hardly taste the tequila.
I'll boost you onto the roof, and hand up my guitar,
and you'll help me climb up,
singing and chanting till the sun knocks us off the room,
we'll go pool hopping, with ski masks on,
and steal lawn ornaments,
and eat churros, and drink egg cream.
and kiss under the Brooklyn bridge.
I just gotta go throttle this ***
and rob this hotdog vendor.
If there isn't a sasquatch
I'll be home by the apocalypse.
Then we can get naked,
and set off the sprinkler system,
and dance in the halls.
Until the sun explodes,
and 2+2= 37.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
I am often under the impression that old fashioned street lamps
The ones with eight sided glass and black ornate poles
Are strategically placed by the city planning commissioner's office
To let me know the wardrobe is just a few dozen feet away
And it will take me away from this Narnia
If I just open the door
My phobia of opening doors gets worse every time I think I've finally found it
Only to walk right into the girls bathroom after lunch
On five alarm chili day at the cosmetology school in Little Korea Town
I don't like watering the plants
It makes me wonder why mother nature fell asleep on the job
But the plants are always telling me the rain can't get them inside my living room
So I started the fire that the insurance won't pay for
And the chemicals in the emergency sprinkler system killed the plants anyways
It also killed the fish
But the insurance adjuster wore gloves
So he's still alive
I would make a pretty ****** politician
I get upset at people who don't make sense
Though sometimes I don't make sense
I also have a bad habit of doing the wrong things for the right reasons
I have found Waldo three times
He says hi
Carmen Sandiego is in San Diego
Which makes that trip to Cairo a really bad piece of detective work
On a related note Al Gore is Captain Planet
And every time I hear a bug zapper
I think it is the bat from Fern Gully
But it is not
It's a bunch of dead moths in a box
Monkeys in a barrel
That's how my mind does things
Every time someone say "it is"
When "it's" would be acceptable
I remember The Land Before Time
"This is fun, it is, it is"
You are welcome
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
Gravel pathways across a
Graveyard.
Rainbows in
Garden sprinkler droplets.
Church tower swallows.
I know death.
I know its smell, the touch of
Something unalive. I know
Its feeling.
It is sharp, lucid and transparent.
White haze in open eyes,
Dreams and memories now
Forgotten.
Stones leaning like mourning
Heads against one another. Trees
In breeze, one has grown around
The single rusty lamp post.
I have stood in its light.
Stood in its light looking up,
Caught not crying over a tragedy.
I know death. I know its feeling.
Closer every time I think of it;
The opposite of a mirage.
Mine may very well one
Day be the first dead body
Someone has ever seen.
These blue eyes milky blind.
Arms like branches; twig fingers.
Life means surprisingly little with
Your hands upon its absence.
Leave my name on each bullet.
Show me your shadow,
Scythe and all.
Dead as burned trees and great
Grandparents. Rancid rest. Dirt.
I know death.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Meadow Fresh
Our fuel for life,
Redzenergy
and the 500mL V
“William, William
stay where I can see you ok”
Stop (neighbourhood watch patrols operating)
In here
Enter the fusion
Stay clear of the fire
Sprinkler inlet
Open
a Woman’s day
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
tight strands of betrayal
come out in licks, light of
cloudy afternoon, hiding behind
a thirsty sprinkler, bathing
my face in smooth anathema.
reiki rain will always run
off into the rainbow soul
gutters where i bathe.
inhale deeply.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
There's Midnight Ravens
along the telephone
wire.
Big black suckers
with deep dark
eyes that
see death
before it comes.
These hosts
of the end
pay me no mind
as I pass beneath
their roost.
They rudely go
about their
Raven buisness,
yelling and
******** their way
into the morning.
An unrelenting
bark drums
on from
behind
a white painted
fence.
An insane sound
like an alarm that
no one will turn
off.
I step over a small
cities worth of
ants who are
scrambling
around a crack
in the
sidewalk
clogged with
more frantic
ants.
The great flood
has arrived
in the form of
a timed sprinkler.
And all of
the soldiers
have abandoned
the Queen.
It's early morning
The air has
yet to be
choked out
by the
diesel fuel
and needless
emissions that will
soon began to
smother the
city
.
The faint smell
of fresh fish
makes its way
up the city
blocks from
the waterfront
below.
Old Italian and
Slavic women
stand outside
in their
long day time
night gowns
smoking cigarettes
while watering
the concrete.
I enter the
alley way ,
the smell of
***** diapers,
cheap
laundry detergent
and too
many children
surround an
apartment complex.
As I passed I came
upon the Black Princess
of these streets.
The wisest and
surest of them all
crosses my path.
Her tail held high
and strong,
striding care free,
she looks at me
with her
emerald eyes
and yawns.
She stops near a row
of trashcans that
are lined
up looking like
a modern
day monolith.
She laps at her
paw with slow,
long, lazy
licks as I
pass.
She again fixes me
with those marble green
eyes and lets me
know without
saying a word.
That the alley cat kills
for fun.
Ignores all Gods
by choice
and laughs
at our attempts
to tame it.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Nature can be, savage or kind
Which way does it go; can it be defined
A young toad was trapped by a sprinkler today
His life could have ended and be swept away
I noticed him there and expected him to hop
He was stuck I could see and I needed to stop
The mower, would and could have, swallowed him up
Had I not looked his way and stopped so abrupt
His leg was trapped in a sprinkler retract
In came down quite hard with a vicious impact
I was able to raise it and help the toad out
His pour leg looked broke, in that there's no doubt
I hope that he lives and heals up real quick
I'm glad I could help, the toad I named Rick...!
Brian Hill - 2019 # 197
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
Mine Filipino rose
For thee I shalt;
Be tossed inside the
The Brazen Bull;
Until mine inside's art crisp.
Be impaled
On wood;
Mine head planted on a stick.
Be crucified
Mine hand's nailed;
Thorn's upon mine top.
A Lead Sprinkler
To sprinkle lava;
In mine throat lost.
An Iron Maiden
To taketh the metal;
Inside mine liver.
Coffin Torture
To let the crow's;
Pecketh at the splinter's.
A thumbscrew
To snap me as twigs;
As mercy I yelleth.
Rope torture
To leaveth me exposed;
To hell and the element's.
The Guillotine
As mine head falleth;
Into oldened basket.
The Rack
As mine shoulder's wilt bust;
Twisting mine bracket's.
Tongue Tearer
To knot mine tongue;
And rip it at the seam's.
The Rat Torture
As mine interior wouldst be ripped;
Rat's burrowing inside me, scream's.
The chair of torture
As edge's impale mine spine;
Hellion seating.
Cement Shoes
In the bottom of the sea;
Wherein noone canst heareth me.
Crocodile Shears
To gut me as a fish;
Reptilian grip's.
The Breaking Wheel
Wherein mine limb's art tied up to spokes, hammered by devil's;
I crack, Snapple, pop, as mine bones elongate, mine blood chokes.
Sitting on the Spanish Donkey
Mine carrion torn in twain;
As heaven canst feeleth mine pain, for thee I'd screameth again.
Saw Torture
As tis the razor's edge wouldst goeth through mine abdomen;
Evil bastard's shalt cut me, as I'm praying amen, just to DIETH.
Hanged, Drawn, and Quartered
It sais it all in the verse;
For thee I'd haveth all this done mine queen, for thee to liveth.......
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
I’m straining my arms and I’m pulling my shoulders,
from pushing each line and carrying our shared boulders.
And my hands are burned and skin’s scraped,
knuckles cracked and broken fingertips,
a few careless words escaped
and I wished to push them back behind my lips.
I’ve got the motor warm and running,
and the waves have settled as they should,
I write down just how I find you stunning,
I would voice it if I only could.
You ask if I’m confident and I tell you I don’t know,
can I make an impossible jump,
oh holy Holly, I don’t think so.
I’m no Henry, no Fonz, no Winkler,
I’m not a stunt performer on T.V,
I barely run through the sprinkler,
I sure as hell will find death in the sea.
The rope’s as tight as a fresh noose,
and my ski’s barely fit my bottom soles,
my hands are clenched just too loose,
I would prefer to be sleeping on coals.
The crowd’s cheers become a lashing,
blood dissolved into the water and salt,
an angry tail’s now thrashing,
my situation is entirely my own fault.
I’m jumping the shark,
without a trial run.
Leaving an infamous mark,
just before it’s all done.
I’m jumping the shark,
it’s the end to my character arc.
I’m jumping the shark,
desperation has never stood so stark.
I’ve glimpsed shadowed empty sets
and walked among great ruins,
I’m tired of swimming in regrets,
pretty please, can I hide in your flesh wounds?
I’ve been taking theatre classes
to act like I’m not terribly bothered,
but every beach goer casually passes,
my body that’s been brutally slaughtered.
I want to feel the water the way that I once did,
with carefree wonder like when I was a kid.
But I always hated the sand, and the way that it encased my toes,
but they’re calling me to set to stand, to see how this final shot goes.
The hoop is placed ontop of a mild wave,
I wish that they engulfed it first in flame,
they praise me for being so brave
but it’s I, not the shark, that is tame.
They’re calling out the term “action”
and I look for my highlighted script,
I only read a small fraction
before I thought it best to rip.
I’m jumping the shark,
without a trial run.
Leaving an infamous mark,
just before it’s all done.
I’m jumping the shark,
it’s the end to my character arc.
I’m jumping the shark,
cut camera and roll credits in the dark.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
Our love is like the puzzle pieces
We bought when we were dating,
The ones that came without
The guiding box-top picture.
Day after day you hand
Me pieces of emerald green
Or royal blue. Some days they're
Orange with a streak of white.
For years now I've been
Lining up the edges,
Linking one piece into another,
But the image remains fragmented.
Now here I am at the end
Of my life, pushing the
Final piece into place.
With tears filling my eyes,
I behold a photograph of you and I
Sitting on our front porch.
Our old, wrinkled hands clasped
As we watch the sprinkler
Move back and forth,
Laughing as our grandchildren
Leap through the streams
That shimmer in the sunset.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
i used to get this feeling
that the world was really great
i remember playing hopscotch in
the driveway with the
sun shining
like the most
beautiful
thing
a beacon of
light
from god himself
i remember dancing
in the backyard with
the sprinkler on
water
flying
skirt
jumping
neighbors
smiling
i was
happy
i used to climb that one
tree at the
park
i called it
mine
one day they chopped off the branch i
always
sat on
not mine
i wanted to be a
dancer
ballerina
enchantress
mom said
no
not
good enough
not enough
money
do something
practical
i just wanted to create
magic
and touch the
stars
that was when
the sky got
blacker
and
the world got
bleaker
then i looked
at other girls
long
legs
thin
arms
soft
hair
pretty
face
me.
thicklegsfatarmstangedhairuglyface
better
off
dead.
pale skin spiderwebbed
with red
red words
red lines
pink scars
dead eyes
all of a sudden the
world
wasn’t that great
then came
the pills
the
tears
the bed
dead
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
written with Mohamed Nasir
please check him out he is such a talented peot
As I was young running underneath the shower
Droplets speckling my face Ike water freckles
I ran across the watery lane in the fountain of
My youth
I ran naked wet under the sprinkler's arches
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! I shouted
Joyfully as Archimedes found truth and naked
He ran down the street of Athens
Eurica! Eurica! Eurica! He shouted
Then I heard someone call my name
And shake me up
"Get up," my mother said
"You wet your bed again," she said
I was dreaming in my wet dreams again
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
they say we’re headed for a worldwide drought
a dystopia of dissolution and decline
forests turn to desert and the streams are running dry
brings a shiny tear to the Indian’s eye
they say we might not make it to the future
we’ll be chewed up and spit out by ourselves
the oceans crest the shore and the flood is upon
oh man please can you tell me now how long
they say we probably don’t have much longer
they say we should start living for today
but that’s the same road which we took to get here
and at this point there’s nothing that i fear
they say we’re headed for a worldwide drought
fields turning to dust and cities filthy and roasting
chemicals and bacteria overwhelming shrinking waterways
famine, illness, war and malaise
they say we’re headed for a worldwide drought
but from where i’m sitting everything is fine
the sprinkler spits crystals on the morning lawn
they glisten in the sun then move on
originally posted on my poetry blog at https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on August 31, 2014
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
I have murdered another human being.
I have murdered someone like me,
Kicking and thrashing
Until his face wasn't right.
It was sideways, wonky, part of his
Nose touching his mouth, bleeding
With his cheekbone crushed inward
All from the swift power of
These worn leather boots.
He had held us hostage for days
Killed a friend of a friend
With a purposeful chiropractic crack
Of the neck gone too far.
We had been freed.
He had stood there smiling
As he dealt the final blow
To our esteem, having kept us
All as his sick twisted harem.
All it took was a smile and
I lost my mind.
Bashing the back of his head
That balding crew cut bloodied
On a rusting sprinkler in the yard.
My tired leather boots did the
Rest of my ***** work.
He resembled a stroke patient
When my boots held their fire.
Too much blood for a lack of life.
I awoke in my bed, safe and
Unscathed by my mind's loss
Of complete control.
Genuine surprise took me, seeing
Those leather boots of mine sit
Peacefully in the corner
Never seeing battle, never
My accomplice in ******
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
The smell of coffee
The laughter of the early shoppers
Classic love songs
An open window
Sunrise
The sound of the birds
mingles perfectly with the rough
sound of the motorcycles and the waves
The morning sky
The excited tapping of flip flops
The local paper boy
A crumpled bed
Fresh bread
"Hey Marianna! Come down and
have some coffee! I got a new
story!" There goes my neighbor Old Jorge
Messy morning hair
The noise of the wooden stairs
Wrinkled night shirt
Sunny side up
Wild Rice
Listening to old Jorge's classic
story for the 67th times while
breathing in the morning sea breeze
The yellow butterfly
The ringing of the church bell
A smiling passerby
An old bicycle
A kiss
"Morning Marianna!"
There goes Karla in her denim shorts
and long legs and sweet smile and pretty nails
The playing kids
The old lady with a sprinkler
The swaying green leaves
Lazy golden retriever
Pretty girls
Ah! If I could grab the
whole world in the palm of
my hands and keep it in my pocket..
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
waves of heat rise
distorting the land beyond
no movement, but buzzing flies
hard, dry straw was once a lawn –
cotton blend, stained and soaked
sticks to a sweaty back
nothing satisfies, leastly a Coke
old man neighbor suffered a heart attack –
oppressor sun, beating down
scorching all of my green land
pooling excretion, enough in which to drown
puddles in the palm of my hand –
small children hide indoors
not willing to risk Summer fun
unable to find street-walking ******
as we all cook in the unrelenting sun –
forecast gives no peace or quarter
instead condemns us to another night of no sleep
saw someone fry an egg on construction mortar
and make cookies on the dashboard of a Jeep –
it is simply not the norm
to crest 100 degrees in the Oregon, June
why, even the sprinkler failed to preform
cooler weather cannot come to soon –
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC