"squelches" poems
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
It smells like freshly mown grass and a
Soaked one piece Ariel swimsuit—the pink ruffles that
Cling
To a toddler’s stomach rolls as she squeaks and squelches down the plastic
Into the dark blue Made in China kiddie pool
That has creatures from all levels of the ocean together
And she doesn’t care.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Has visible handprints on the sides from
The toddler holding on for dear life before
She gathers the courage to balance on top on her own.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Sits in that yard for almost a decade at the end
Of the sickly green swing set that lifts up out of the ground
Whenever the toddler pumps too hard,
And is a end destination for the intense races across the apparatus
That occur every Sunday noon amongst the Sunday School kids without fail.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Under it is one of the best places for hide-and-seek in the winter,
When it is almost buried under the glistening snow
And the toddler can’t feel her legs anymore but she doesn’t care because
She can’t be found.
At that age she has no limits, no mental restraints that
Cut her dreams off before they bear fruit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit,
And of the world beyond it she is only a
Prisoner of fierce fascination.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
Someday I shall dwell
In a townhouse by the square
Surrounded by a picket fence
Which guards yellow daffodils
The color of butter, the scent of cheer.
A strip of the town shall be laid
In cobblestone, each side of the road
Embellished with tall, San Francisco buildings
Each its own, and each a new hue.
In the morning I will wake
The same time as the sun
And amble down the seashore
Discerning every seafull, eyeing every seashell,
I shall smile as the wet sand
Squelches through my toes
And the tide comes in,
For I will be happy.
In the afternoons, I’ll laze about,
Meet a friend for coffee,
I shall linger at the bay where the ferries come in
Smell the salt as it spritzes my skin.
There will be a cheerful man on Mondays
Who pushes a white cart up and down streets
Wielding balloons of every color
For giggly children, hands covered in lollipop residue.
I shall smile at night
When the moon rules the sky
And gleams through my window,
For I will be happy.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
The sludge
of mud
that creeps up
to my eyes
squelches me
down like quicksand
***** a large
breathing object
into
its grainy film
an antithesis
of sea
lungs sputtering
out brain reeling
in remnants of
clusterfucked,
panic –driven
welting
and I am ready to
burst out
legs trapped
yet voice high
heart squealing
in the fire
bring me to
somewhere
it’s a situation
dire
this madness
cupping me through
time-realms
and I must find it
that liquid that
wet flow of writhing
struggling
breaking
free
of those heavy bands
of slimy kelp
holding me
squirm me out
I don’t care
if I get the
muck of centuries
in my hair
for in my veins
my blood does see
I crave the sunlight's
strokes
and
I
must
breathe
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
I stood in front of the toaster oven to retrieve my slightly singed toast, and for a moment, I felt the warmth of the sun.
It's been so long since I've seen the sun. I suppose I've grown accustomed to the cruel skies of a bitter climate. Lately, all that can be seen of the world when I look out my bedroom window is the grey sky and the bare bones of a Japanese maple.
The waterlogged earth squelches underfoot, weeping the melted snow up through a sparse carpet of grass. The grass, also, is barely keeping it together.
The skin on my hands has grown dry and rough, and while I could blame this on my clumsiness or demanding pastimes, I know better. Occasionally I work up the motivation to fight this process with some lotion or other. But yet, the heat of my apartment and the chill winds persist.
Will my hands ever again have that soft tenderness? Will we ever again see the sun? Will we ever?
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
education: takes my motivation
and squelches it.
plummets me deep
within the caverns of responsibility.
the fight for pleasure without pain.
taken aback and washed up ashore,
what's more? I'm buried.
chippin' rocks at last
sunrise 'till sunset, convenient lover
conventional friend.
at each beginning I sense our end.
each tattered piece of your broken heart is clenched,
your muscles aching.
bleeding and blended into a bitter batter, what's the mater?
you haven't always been this tender.
you shiver in your regret
the tension's in your sweat
and I bet you're not as sick as I was
when I felt you beside me when I was all alone
your arms were a death bed
reaching around my shoulder blades.
not a moment until the understanding
pulses and fades as your love
shimmers and dissipates.
comfort kills this fragile figure
rotten molten black lunged angel,
I fear the moment I can no longer
feel that you are unlimited in your tender form.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Any institution
which squelches questions
oughtn't be trusted,
methinks.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
I will never apologies
for the actions of my hedonistic heart.
And my life is rented space
to portray my demonistic art.
Of bottles empty and broken,
of girls sleeping soundly in a room of people
People spending time to waste it away
like so many nights before
The quit rebellion that squelches itself
when the body begins to
die faster than intended.
But the ******* feels like ecstasy
scrapping my nose
And the ***** tastes like nothing.
And my soul feels heated and ready to die.
Ready to die for a little more joy.
And the night
And for all children
Who are at home
Sleeping
Safe
bored
To tears
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
I try to refrain but retch
And my thoughts splatter the paper
True conversation, simple as
The twig caught up in our river
Meandering along
Strips us of the shell they covet
Within layers of their own
Shining opaque splendor
A beautiful visage
That disturbs even the casual passerby
We are not the first ones.
Careless escapists frequent our haven
And their troubles vanish
As ours ooze from our pores
A vile sludge that falls and
Squelches between toes
Leaving us clean, relatively speaking
Upon our exit, we scoop up some of the stuff
And fit it back inside
Determined, the impure
Resolved, the imperfect
To sink further
Into the madness
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
The **** squelches underneath
fingertips, whose only barrier
is plushly folded paper.
Clench, release, dispose,
rinse, and flush away
the human
oh so human.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
wet sand squelches between my toes
hot rays of sunshine beat against my skin
waves ripples in the lake
ice cream drips from the cone onto my hand
tank tops and shorts and swimsuits
sweet lemonade as the ice cubes clink in the glass
school's out and relaxing's in
walking through the cool forest
a relief from the sweltering sun
diving into the pool
and splashing your friends
refreshing breeze as the sun sets
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 4:14 PM UTC