"strainer" poems
i go through this daily plot
waking, working, trudging
first world ease, office walls
wheeled chairs
afternoon run
tupperware lunch
dinner the night before
home again, dinner
dishes again,
play again,
daughter picks up
new phrases, new looks
vegetable strainer toy
"umbrella," she says
i see those eyes, my wife's
and i wonder
what is this place?
these walls, these roads,
those sitka pines and shrinking
glaciers?
how 'm i supposed to be a father
with all these things stretching out
vaster than reason, than comprehension
those talking heads, ranting this or that
liberty's ***** freedom's snatched,
the world warms, the world cools
Filipinos scream in the face of angry
winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly
gestures at a colorful map, powerful
he says, historic
he says
more dripping mouthes,
government want guns now,
more money to ****** our phones
to send unmanned drones
our president's muhammad,
or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest
a genius or incompetent
everyone knows
just back home
a tiny algae grows and foams
thrashing in the autumn water
brown oxygen choking life
never found on our shores before
kills fish,
i imagine so much more
i hold my daughter in my lap
reading mother goose,
run my hand through her
thin smooth hair,
sometimes afraid
of what she'll see and hear
with her mother's eyes
and her father's ears
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
A good metaphor for life is a man trying to eat soup out of a spaghetti strainer
He goes super fast
Cause hes trying to get the good stuff
But no matter how much he gets
He just ends up with a bunch of soup off over his pants
And then he dies of old age eventually
I am not good at metaphors.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
I wear no sunglasses that Shield my
eyes from the realities
of this world
that put a Valencia filter over the
things that I see or a sensor
over the things that I hear.
I do not push the news stations
through a small strainer only
allowing the ”easy to
handle” stories to reach my
cup for me to consume.
I know that red is this world's favorite
acrylic,
black it's favorite oil paint,
and blue it's favorite watercolor.
the painting of our world has red
splattered across every
building and seeping out of every
wrist,
black in every sidewalk crack, every
alleyway, and across
every, screaming, mouth,
and blue welling in every eye.
I know this, but I have ripped the tape
from my mouth, bandaged my
wrists, and wiped my eyes
I have become comfortable.
opening my mouth
Like pulling the trigger of a gun
Aimed at anyone trying to Paint those
colors back into my life
shooting their thoughts down making
pastel bullet holes so the light can
shine in.
I have become too comfortable.
I only come to this realization when I
hear gunshots coming from a hand
who does not know what it is
holding
when I hear seemingly Innocent
Voices say
“Well, why does it even matter,
if you've given a ******* before, what's the hesitation to doing it
again?”
“ Because I said no.”
“ But you've already done it, before.”
I've told you, I do not wear filtered
glasses.
but sometimes I forget that people are
programmed with black paint on
their brushes ready to cover over
your mouth again.
I remember that as soon as I learned
to rip the tape from my mouth
I realize that I can't just watch them
bring the tape closer until they
push it over my lips
I have to scream, as soon as I see it,
Because that is what my mouth is for.
And I have to fight to keep it of,
because that is what my hands and
wrists are for.
And I have to look- not like the prey
trying to stay out of sight,
but like a warrior with eyes like
swords
and a mouth...
like a gun.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
Blackest nights and hearts of hearts
As the feeling hits my bones
Vast illusions take their hold
Welcome evil to its throne
Embrace the stars that guide my fate they've often burned when I arrive too late
It seems I'm running in a vector leading myself back to what I hate
I picked the crown from all the roses, chose to drown yet dreamt of floating, spending precious time just hoping, loves a drug so now I'm doping, heart so broken no use coping, all this ink black blood is flowing, spilling from my tongue it stains the ground pollutes the mud
Wasted words, from wasted tongues I think I've fallen out of love and now this freedom cuts me open just to rip out all these pieces, voices, words, and thesis I've been Clinging to this life, God should just hand me the knife, I'll carve myself a new beginning.
Stab myself with a thousand needles to drive it home once more that there is no growth without pain and from me all the hues of red and black come pouring out in a catharsis of the self inflicted damage I've pursued in the twisted notion that accepting this pain will leave me with nothing left to lose and everything left to gain but as it turns out the gods were never so cruel and never so kind as to let me weather the entire storm to prove to myself that I was truly alive.
No.
No.
Take me, break me, shatter my illusions, drive my mind into confusion, take from me everything I hold true and run it through the strainer that's
you, God of wisdom take my hand and drag me through the burning sands, and take from me right as I bleed through every wound you set me free, crush my faith, tear out my eyes, if I don't make it death is fine, gifted wisdom from divine, is worth this anguished mortal life, show me death and show me light, show me plenty show me strife, cast upon I beg of thee, make me listen make me free.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 10:11 AM UTC
Tossed. It was
tossed from the
trash and into the
treasure. Tossed.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
The perforations within our assumed wisdom, lay bare the essence of our very folly.
Similar to the tea-bag, our prestige fills a void which lies below the strainer of presumption.
Will we ever count the cost of our labors? Is our money invested in the wrong opinion?
How unique truly are we, in the midst of mass conformity?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Beep-beep.
Beep.
Bee-bee.
Water splashes as it bubbles over,
steam rushes out from under the pot's lid,
Tender pasta arcks out into a strainer from the waterfall of boiling water.
The aroma of fresh cut vegtibles pollutes the air,
Herbs and spice fill the *** as cream fills the gaps between pasta,
Chese coats the top.
Children make a muck in the garden's grass,
Caked with soil they tromp past the hall,
So much bleach will be needed tomorrow.
Smooth jazz comes from the apple shaped speakers in the kitchen
A spiral of spices flit through the air.
All sit,
The sun setting low,
Lights luminate our table's surface,
puppy licks at your toe,
The food passes round,
And there's a happy glow.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Here is the situation,
As unfortunate as it is,
You no longer have a significant part of my heart.
Once there used to be a time, twice a time, when thoughts
bombarded my mind and chances were they concerned you.
But now my eyes, as reluctant as they are, can see you,
You unintentional enchanter.
You accidental seducer.
You oblivious snarer of infatuated captivation.
You are the alpha of canker blossoms.
You are the epitome of everything that frustrates me.
I used to live in a house where the
Walls were your voice and your face.
A mental institution in which I was never voluntarily admitted.
A house of mirrors in which I couldn’t see myself or anybody else,
My thirst for your infatuation reflected,
Mocking smiles of every kind.
I cried blackened tears that fell to the
Ground and then flew into the sky like
Bleached ravens, like childhood dreams,
So carefully groomed by the mommies and the daddies,
Collapsing into little liquid drops dripping through the desperate holes of a strainer.
I cried because you seemed to find it
Necessary to seek interests in other girls
And never me.
I am not a bruised apple;
I am not a crushed autumn leaf;
I am not a discarded baby blanket;
And I am not unworthy.
So why in god’s oh so deemed holy name
Have you not seen me?
Or maybe you see it right on my face,
Like I’m a displayed canvas as easy to
See as red blushed from a pale, void surface,
And you are just messing with me.
Playing with me
As I am your spaniel and you can treat me as such?
Like I am a doll whose string you pull
And receive a pathetic voice pleading,
Love me love me.
Am I below your standard of interesting?
What could possibly be so wrong with or about me that repulses you?
Not you really, but more your interest in me.
At this moment I am wound tighter with exasperation
More than any moment before.
You will always be a tug of war in my life.
If only I could simply expel you,
The nuisance you are.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:04 PM UTC
| |
a bridge
boards spread
firmly
but rickety
more holes
than a strainer
uneven walking
handrails
required
spanning a long
distance
. =_-_=~==_--=_-
sometimes the wind
or fog
can block
or sway
our distance bridge
| |
build on love
in our hearts
for only
our souls to cross
the fog is blocking me
from being able to see you
our bridge needs repairs
at both ends
\.|. /
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
Lost without direction
Empty as that crumbled pack of Marlboro lights on the ground
Lonely, a single towel on the line to dry…in the rain
Wasted like left over pudding in the sink strainer
Shredded, an unimportant document in the wrong stack
Destroyed in a crumbled mass of quivering stone
Crying beneath a flowing river rising
Torn apart, a ticket stub to a missed concert
Scared half to death with the other half waiting
Cowering within each breath I no longer want to take
Fractured like grandma’s Hummel found by a wagging dog’s tail
Dead, wearing a disguise of the living…and a poor one at that
Desperate to know that which I won’t
Lost without you
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
There is a delicacy
to her hand falling
onto his thigh,
pale edges curving
onto the denim,
shining there
clear as glass
Her tongue
sheltered against
her cheek,
painting clouds
onto the roof
of her mouth,
she's breathing in
the thickest fog
Their fingertips
in the dust, etched
onto the windowsill --
someday they'll be
blown away,
curious children
or anxious mother
clearing away the dirt
of their past
Her dreams
poured softly
into a Mason jar,
his ideas
sifted coolly
through a strainer,
their ghosts pass
through the kitchen
faint as shadows
The bones of her hips
bowl like cradles,
carrying the grief
of impermanence,
sheltering the hope
that someone will remember
the days that have passed
Dots of paint
staining the carpet
will preserve her breath,
folding out into the fog
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
Why is it that every time I finally get it within my grasp,
it slips away like water through a strainer.
So close to what I need, desire, admire,
willing to drop everything for that one chance,
but every time.
Every God ****** time,
it slips away,
out of my hands,
onto the floor,
where it crashes; painting the floor with my failure,
over my other fresh coat of dreams.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
I’m stuck in a rut
unable to escape
Full of shallow words
with no rhyme or rhythm
lacking structure
scratching the surface
with no hope of redemption
My words carelessly strewn
leave nothing to the imagination
as deep as a gutter
as full as a strainer
as meaningful as my life
will i ever get out
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 12:03 AM UTC
beauty is something
that cannot be defined,
beauty is something
like love
you know when you
see it,
beauty that I am
talking about
isn’t the sunset
so beautifully painted
or a picture perfect
dawn,
its in the lines
that cannot be drawn
its in the self aligned
rain drops
weaving a symphony
its in the birds
choosing a perfect
spot to nest
its in the bees
buzzing for attention,
its on a sunny day
when you are staring
down the sun,
its in the coincidences
that leaves you
without a reason
its in the winds
commanding the trees
calligraphic words
on the invitation
for the change of seasons
its in the quiet stares
on the rocking chair
looking for introspection
its in the child
losing his way
begging for attention,
its in the tears
that refuse to cooperate
and thats because
we have difference of opinion,
and then we reconcile,
its in the waves
testing the rocks
and then the rocks lose it
and send the waves crashing
its in the disappointments
and the clock keeps ticking
what you thought was a setback
was a disguised blessing
its in the rhymes
that are beautiful liquid
my brain is a strainer
the beats couldn’t be perfect
make your soul feel nourished
its in the female body form
alive and post dark room
that curves got you stumbling
and by form I didn’t mean shape,
its in the feeling
when you come back home
from a vacation
knowing the best view
is from your bed room window,
beauty is something
you seek
when you find
beauty is nothing more
than a state of mind
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Are you raising plants from the ground
Are you coaxing foxes from their dens
Are you waiting for the sun to be confident again
(for it to stop hiding because it thinks the moon shines brighter
and it is ashamed)
I need time alone
Need time to sift my thoughts through my spaghetti strainer brain
You took a weed-whacker to my youth, too
And somehow I survived
So I will be still
And close up like a flower
When the darkness comes.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
i taught myself to be who i am
perhaps my life isnt always all that it seems
weeks i cant remember, but it's easier to recall my dreams
the literal, not future
because what future can be seen
when there is so much in the way?
my thoughts are like a strainer
holding the negative
and watching all the positive drip through
maybe ill feel better when the ticking stops
when the little hand meets the 3 on the clock
maybe when my weight starts to dust itself off
or when i fall in love
when I finally feel satisfied enough to just sleep it off
its getting harder to stay awake
to make my running thoughts run away
its getting more difficult to feel much of anything lately
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
Don't tell me what to do
Because it's not all about you
I'm an independent woman
Trying to be with a good man
It's hard to let things go
Just load the dishwasher up like I do bro
Oh you washed clothes
Well you didn't sort the loads
Thank you for cooking dinner
Oh but that's not the way I use the strainer
Vacuum all the carpets well they don't look touched well I think you're nuts
I have to let the little things go no if ands or buts
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 7:55 AM UTC
you have taken a strainer
to our melting *** of a nation.
you have divided us with cruel words
and just a sprinkle of hate.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
my heart is a glass of water
sometimes its boiling over
other times it expands and cracks
and it freezes me from the
i n s i d e o u t
if i'm feeling confident
that you will look after
my heart
i will pour it out, a
t
r
i
c
k
l
e
to begin with
then as it falls
faster and faster
you c a t c h it
with a strainer
instead of your own
glass heart
my love continues to flow
unsure of its destiny
and away from
y o u
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
~
Lost without direction
Empty as that crumbled pack of Marlboro lights on the ground
Lonely, a single towel on the line to dry…in the rain
Wasted like left over pudding in the sink strainer
Shredded, an unimportant document in the wrong stack
Destroyed in a crumbled mass of quivering stone
Crying beneath a flowing river rising
Torn apart, a ticket stub to a missed concert
Scared half to death with the other half waiting
Cowering within each breath I no longer want to take
Fractured like grandma’s Hummel found by a wagging dog’s tail
Dead, wearing a disguise of the living…and a poor one at that
Desperate to know that which I won’t
Lost without you
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
I don't know how,
Such sadnes could fall into
Such empty hands,
And still feel like progress.
Like sand through a strainer
Piece by piece perfectly
Fitting.
Yet falling through.
Truth lies in the small spaces
Between the metal weaving.
Spinning.
Snowflakes falling on pavement.
Cement
In my room. A draft
Under my bed
Like the monster in his eyes,
When he tells me
His love for me
Is slipping between his fingers.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
Whenever I see you in the ***
My home comes to my mind
My mother’s haste of preparing breakfast
My father’s stress of being late for meeting
My brother’s crying for food
And I am waiting for you to be cooked
With strainer in my hand
I remember I threw your thin slices into a boiling oil
Which is my mother’s skillful hands sliced
Then I added a pinch of salt because
You know, I and my brother don’t like you without it
How would I know
We were related to our pain
Both of us are feeling the knife in our neck
Both of us are flaming in the fire
The only difference is
You suffer in the ***
I suffer in my heart
Now, I changed
I don’t care if you are
Sweet or insipid
Crispy or soft
Salty or saltness
I just want to eat you from my mother
And with my family, in my home
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
The fidget, restless, ache
Starting to diffuse,
New tea from a lemon-wedge strainer
Rough, cheap sheets, earthy brown,
Tame, welcome
Hard bed, steady fan, gently blowing the blinds
Back, forth,
Reading a good book, eyes laze to, fro
Soft music, lavender sleep mask,
The dead heat, heavy air
It's not perfect. It's home
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
"how do you
do it?" you
cried suddenly
as we walked.
"do what?"
i asked.
"balance things
on things that
shouldn't stay
but they do."
"i don't?"
i said
and remembered
that i do.
we decided
it must be
some vague
form of magic
that bowls never
fell off of tissue boxes
i never knocked
glasses of water
off of my bed frame
that terracotta pots
stayed put on water jugs
and the way i can
load a dish strainer
shouldn't be possible.
well
scratch that
because today at
eight a.m. i spilled
half a cup of
fresh coffee
all over my blanket
sheets shirt and ipod
nothing was
damaged just
smelling very
columbian
but i guess i'm
not magic after all.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC