"squeezer" poems - Hello Poetry

Life doesn't always hand you lemons like snowballs they can be thrown at your legs Down on your knees you'll go, because lemons are much harder than snowballs you know. Crippling you for however long, this harsh act forces you to crawl. Don't expect a wheelchair, there wont be one for you. We all crawled at one point or another a past lesson; a past stepping stone on how to walk if you can remember,which I doubt you can crawling was much easier then. Back then you weren't use to standing on your feet. But for whatever reason life decided to chunk a lemon your way knock you down in the middle of the road, then run off like some silly little girl, all the while laughing of course Life chose you. You with your habit of bad luck and terrible morning breath... Keep your head up when you start crawl, if not you'll miss the ladder. As one of life's wonderful attempts to keep you down just keep going, keep moving forward and when you see that ladder... don't climb it. Use it to stand back up then hunt down a brand new lemon squeezer, cause I can guarantee life 'misplaced' your last one... on purpose of course.

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Dec 28, 2010

Dec 28, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC

TornIllusion

Life's Lemons

Life doesn't always hand you lemons like snowballs they can be thrown at your legs Down on your knees you'll go, because lemons are much harder than snowballs you know. Crippling you for however long, this harsh act forces you to crawl. Don't expect a wheelchair, there wont be one for you. We all crawled at one point or another a past lesson; a past stepping stone on how to walk if you can remember,which I doubt you can crawling was much easier then. Back then you weren't use to standing on your feet. But for whatever reason life decided to chunk a lemon your way knock you down in the middle of the road, then run off like some silly little girl, all the while laughing of course Life chose you. You with your habit of bad luck and terrible morning breath... Keep your head up when you start crawl, if not you'll miss the ladder. As one of life's wonderful attempts to keep you down just keep going, keep moving forward and when you see that ladder... don't climb it. Use it to stand back up then hunt down a brand new lemon squeezer, cause I can guarantee life 'misplaced' your last one... on purpose of course.

25

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles." Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your *** How do you melt the multy swag? ***** and the blowens cop the lot. Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a *** Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You can not bank a single stag; ***** and the blowens cop the lot. Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: ***** and the blowens cop the lot. THE MORAL It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not. Until the squeezer nips your scrag, ***** and the blowens cop the lot.

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2.6k

William Ernest Henley

Villon's Straight Tip To All Cross Coves

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles." Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your *** How do you melt the multy swag? ***** and the blowens cop the lot. Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a *** Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You can not bank a single stag; ***** and the blowens cop the lot. Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: ***** and the blowens cop the lot. THE MORAL It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not. Until the squeezer nips your scrag, ***** and the blowens cop the lot.

30

They taught me to swim the same way they taught me to ride a bike. lets see what happens when we push her down a hill, will she balance or bite through her lip? They locked me in the closet, a suitcase, the trunk of our Toyota Corolla and a cardboard box all because I fit ;) I walked through her room while she studied for her Calculus Final because it was the only way to get to my room (over and over for attention). They held me down 3 at a time to play piano on my tummy while I shreked for pure joy and fun. He gave me a boxing name on our trampoline and let me win. I ate his chocolate in her bed. They thought I was a cat licking itself under the covers. When he came off the streets he gave me video games, Spyro, Pokemon, Zelda, and Sonic At first I didn't know we were related. She chased me and my best friend around the house Screaming Squeeze my buns of steal baby he never came back. They held me upstairs while things flew and crashed downstairs forever breaking the lemon squeezer. I cried and he held me, my first memory of him being nice. She had me live with her 5 days a week 6 years because our parents didn't want to deal, even though she was bulimic. She took care of me but in truth I kept her alive. They were my first memory, they were there for me, when I was little they were my parents. I jokingly tell people that all my good traits were learned from them. When they left there was no one left to protect me. All alone, too young to understand them being gone was what made me sad. I was used to having 8 parents and now I have the two that actually gave birth to me. Haha I say you only have 2. I gave up on them long ago, why would I pick 2 when I have 8? Forever the 8 of us.

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Apr 5, 2014

Apr 5, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC

eloquence

The 8 Of Us

They taught me to swim the same way they taught me to ride a bike. lets see what happens when we push her down a hill, will she balance or bite through her lip? They locked me in the closet, a suitcase, the trunk of our Toyota Corolla and a cardboard box all because I fit ;) I walked through her room while she studied for her Calculus Final because it was the only way to get to my room (over and over for attention). They held me down 3 at a time to play piano on my tummy while I shreked for pure joy and fun. He gave me a boxing name on our trampoline and let me win. I ate his chocolate in her bed. They thought I was a cat licking itself under the covers. When he came off the streets he gave me video games, Spyro, Pokemon, Zelda, and Sonic At first I didn't know we were related. She chased me and my best friend around the house Screaming Squeeze my buns of steal baby he never came back. They held me upstairs while things flew and crashed downstairs forever breaking the lemon squeezer. I cried and he held me, my first memory of him being nice. She had me live with her 5 days a week 6 years because our parents didn't want to deal, even though she was bulimic. She took care of me but in truth I kept her alive. They were my first memory, they were there for me, when I was little they were my parents. I jokingly tell people that all my good traits were learned from them. When they left there was no one left to protect me. All alone, too young to understand them being gone was what made me sad. I was used to having 8 parents and now I have the two that actually gave birth to me. Haha I say you only have 2. I gave up on them long ago, why would I pick 2 when I have 8? Forever the 8 of us.

16

Loosey goosey, Gary Busey Makes more sense than you! What do you see, big kaboosie? What would Vladdy Putin do? Fussy wussy, presidential woosy Tell a whole buncha more lies. Flappy ***** big **** slappy The best your money buys. Choppy woppy, never stoppy Even when caught on tape. Shouty, pouty, tough it outy Completely out of shape. Fleecer, squeezer, ugely obese Shadow of your youth Ripoff, tipoff, always lipoff. Incapable of truth. Heapy cheapy, never sleepy Won’t pay your own bills. Brainless pain, runaway train, All your ideas can **** Neego, peego, bloated ego The little kids you scare, Shard, pard, big tub of lard, As attractive as your hair.

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Apr 5, 2018

Apr 5, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

DONNY-RONNY

Loosey goosey, Gary Busey Makes more sense than you! What do you see, big kaboosie? What would Vladdy Putin do? Fussy wussy, presidential woosy Tell a whole buncha more lies. Flappy ***** big **** slappy The best your money buys. Choppy woppy, never stoppy Even when caught on tape. Shouty, pouty, tough it outy Completely out of shape. Fleecer, squeezer, ugely obese Shadow of your youth Ripoff, tipoff, always lipoff. Incapable of truth. Heapy cheapy, never sleepy Won’t pay your own bills. Brainless pain, runaway train, All your ideas can **** Neego, peego, bloated ego The little kids you scare, Shard, pard, big tub of lard, As attractive as your hair.

24

Gettysburg Address A diaspora of stones make their way back, posted by penitents keen to relieve long years of suffering. Late at night under desk light they put pen to paper, insert shims of confession to wedge bits of Pennsylvania scree into envelopes, a wary eye on talismans cocooned in twists of tissue or sealed up tight inside zip lock bags, ancient Alleghany seabed pocketed one hot August afternoon in the Peach Orchard, palmed on impulse along Cemetery Ridge, another bearing the mica glint that drew the eye of a desultory adolescent moping in the long shadow of Little Round Top twenty-three summers gone now, before the untimely death of a sister or a budding career in HR derailed on the heels of divorce, DUI and depression. How else to explain the plane crash, forfeiture of assets, the shadow on the x-ray, the second one hundred year flood? In after hour twilight, tour buses long gone, gaudy chains out on Route 15 humming, all with waits of an hour or more, a National Park Service Ranger, a man about my age and mien, doffs his flat brimmed lemon squeezer to retreat behind a desk, leaf through a sheaf of petitions for mercy addressed in desperation. Silence pressing in from Culps Hill and Devils Den, the Wheatfield and Seminary Ridge, he presses smooth a pane of stationary, eyes closed, fingers brushing words of intention, box of stones at his feet, heaped, indistinguishable as an unbroken line of advancing infantry.

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Jan 20, 2017

Jan 20, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC

dave-hardin

Untitled

Gettysburg Address A diaspora of stones make their way back, posted by penitents keen to relieve long years of suffering. Late at night under desk light they put pen to paper, insert shims of confession to wedge bits of Pennsylvania scree into envelopes, a wary eye on talismans cocooned in twists of tissue or sealed up tight inside zip lock bags, ancient Alleghany seabed pocketed one hot August afternoon in the Peach Orchard, palmed on impulse along Cemetery Ridge, another bearing the mica glint that drew the eye of a desultory adolescent moping in the long shadow of Little Round Top twenty-three summers gone now, before the untimely death of a sister or a budding career in HR derailed on the heels of divorce, DUI and depression. How else to explain the plane crash, forfeiture of assets, the shadow on the x-ray, the second one hundred year flood? In after hour twilight, tour buses long gone, gaudy chains out on Route 15 humming, all with waits of an hour or more, a National Park Service Ranger, a man about my age and mien, doffs his flat brimmed lemon squeezer to retreat behind a desk, leaf through a sheaf of petitions for mercy addressed in desperation. Silence pressing in from Culps Hill and Devils Den, the Wheatfield and Seminary Ridge, he presses smooth a pane of stationary, eyes closed, fingers brushing words of intention, box of stones at his feet, heaped, indistinguishable as an unbroken line of advancing infantry.

25

I hear your squirrel faced inflected scorn But I am not the subject of your masquerade There is no running from the truth within my circle There is no hiding from the harm you've made With nothing of the fearful scribe in me, I have become Your challenger, your truth teller, your unveiled voice Of revocation, Justice long denied has hurried home To my protestations, my unyielding force for choice There is not one obliquely terrifying word you've fumbled That has found solace within my intentions No remorse at hearing your lewd, vile inventions Your nasty woman-hating world will crumble In the blast of my ice poured upon your blather Do you hear the drums of sweet November call? There you will be tossed and tumbled In reality you are no kind of man at all. No kind of man we would embrace for any price Though you cling fast to every dollar in your grasp Wring benefits unearned from others, squeezer, vice But never leader, only backward stretching wasp Bring out your ugly legionnaires of doom to face the music Of the young, the elderly, the strong against your hooded lies Those who long for justice aim to curb you and your avarice Bring here your crippled trumpet too be smelted in our fires For every child of every mother, every sister, every brother Father, will take no prisoners, but free the wrongly caged To fill your coffers slaved the migrant, not today And never more shall we sit quiet in our rage. I call you traitor to your country, traitor to your college students Traitor to investors, every one. You plan to win. It's now your time of trials will begin. Expect that it will never end.

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Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC

spring-bright

Crippled Trump

I hear your squirrel faced inflected scorn But I am not the subject of your masquerade There is no running from the truth within my circle There is no hiding from the harm you've made With nothing of the fearful scribe in me, I have become Your challenger, your truth teller, your unveiled voice Of revocation, Justice long denied has hurried home To my protestations, my unyielding force for choice There is not one obliquely terrifying word you've fumbled That has found solace within my intentions No remorse at hearing your lewd, vile inventions Your nasty woman-hating world will crumble In the blast of my ice poured upon your blather Do you hear the drums of sweet November call? There you will be tossed and tumbled In reality you are no kind of man at all. No kind of man we would embrace for any price Though you cling fast to every dollar in your grasp Wring benefits unearned from others, squeezer, vice But never leader, only backward stretching wasp Bring out your ugly legionnaires of doom to face the music Of the young, the elderly, the strong against your hooded lies Those who long for justice aim to curb you and your avarice Bring here your crippled trumpet too be smelted in our fires For every child of every mother, every sister, every brother Father, will take no prisoners, but free the wrongly caged To fill your coffers slaved the migrant, not today And never more shall we sit quiet in our rage. I call you traitor to your country, traitor to your college students Traitor to investors, every one. You plan to win. It's now your time of trials will begin. Expect that it will never end.

32

I sit, I wish for the glistening moon pools to sprinkle down my way. Dreamy starry sky, and the soft combing breeze sings sweet lullabies to the indigo trees. Sing the same to me, and I'll go where you go; river so wide, wider's my window! Now dance as you've done so many times before; embrace the morning sun's broad rays on your shore. Far banks shall appear with the coming of April, and strike out I will through the dusty rock passes through mountains of yellow and bridges of gold -- until I gain the city of friends, lamplights and streetlights and buslights and doors will be closed. Gone, then, are the wishes and wonders and wants, the things that I hoped for a long time ago. The trill of the strings (my only respite from keen madness or a tantō to wish me goodnight) rises on palm-tops, floats in cool grasses, gives purpose my soul. So much peace I find in warm charming moonlight.... Tomorrow, concern may put your course on a laxed and lumberous way, great river of the dying day, but as long as my will goes on, and the wonderful will of the Maker, those fleet-footed brigands won't catch me, for I am faster than they are. ...Calming storm, you stirrer and squeezer, present most of the time that I need you: Set my mind, for all its vain attempts; make me relent, and I won't deceive you. Till then, I'll be leaving you soon, but know my April blush is the same color as in June, and the fabric of all that I hope for is the cloth of the comforting moon.

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Mar 24, 2018

Mar 24, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC

Dawnstar

Moon River

I sit, I wish for the glistening moon pools to sprinkle down my way. Dreamy starry sky, and the soft combing breeze sings sweet lullabies to the indigo trees. Sing the same to me, and I'll go where you go; river so wide, wider's my window! Now dance as you've done so many times before; embrace the morning sun's broad rays on your shore. Far banks shall appear with the coming of April, and strike out I will through the dusty rock passes through mountains of yellow and bridges of gold -- until I gain the city of friends, lamplights and streetlights and buslights and doors will be closed. Gone, then, are the wishes and wonders and wants, the things that I hoped for a long time ago. The trill of the strings (my only respite from keen madness or a tantō to wish me goodnight) rises on palm-tops, floats in cool grasses, gives purpose my soul. So much peace I find in warm charming moonlight.... Tomorrow, concern may put your course on a laxed and lumberous way, great river of the dying day, but as long as my will goes on, and the wonderful will of the Maker, those fleet-footed brigands won't catch me, for I am faster than they are. ...Calming storm, you stirrer and squeezer, present most of the time that I need you: Set my mind, for all its vain attempts; make me relent, and I won't deceive you. Till then, I'll be leaving you soon, but know my April blush is the same color as in June, and the fabric of all that I hope for is the cloth of the comforting moon.

59

I am the giver of hugs, The dispenser of caressing comfort, The holder of those in need, The squeezer out of pain and sorrow, The shutter out of this world and its woe, If only for a moment a head Upon my shoulder Is free of sadness and sorrow, Free of fear and frustration, Safety resides within my embrace, Sanctuary whence nowt can reach thee, But right now it's the hugger In hugging need, That tap gushing From a bottomless jug has Just a hint of falter, A tiniest reduction of pressure, Insufficient for regard by others But keenly felt by me, Hints at limits being reached, And I rail against that potential Failure to project and protect, So here I am, Pouring out hugs, While inside every sinew Screams for someone, Anyone in fact, to see ME, See the pain and need, See my faltering heart And hope, And step up, Wrap me in THEIR arms, Hold me and heal MY broken Worn out heart a bit, So I can hold and heal Those many more Still in need.

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Sep 14, 2024

Sep 14, 2024 at 2:41 PM UTC

jamesb

Hug

I am the giver of hugs, The dispenser of caressing comfort, The holder of those in need, The squeezer out of pain and sorrow, The shutter out of this world and its woe, If only for a moment a head Upon my shoulder Is free of sadness and sorrow, Free of fear and frustration, Safety resides within my embrace, Sanctuary whence nowt can reach thee, But right now it's the hugger In hugging need, That tap gushing From a bottomless jug has Just a hint of falter, A tiniest reduction of pressure, Insufficient for regard by others But keenly felt by me, Hints at limits being reached, And I rail against that potential Failure to project and protect, So here I am, Pouring out hugs, While inside every sinew Screams for someone, Anyone in fact, to see ME, See the pain and need, See my faltering heart And hope, And step up, Wrap me in THEIR arms, Hold me and heal MY broken Worn out heart a bit, So I can hold and heal Those many more Still in need.

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