"swishes" poems
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
The man at the bar
He is a young ****
He's got years on his slate
Double my own
A bottle of scotch
He swishes away
The British way
Born in London
Now a Southerner
Touring the country
With his Wife,
Elene
Not missing a thing
Quite the engineer
Laughing away
With each glass
The bartender brings
Flapping his yap
At the pretty young miss
Residing at the bar
Enjoying her dinner
No longer feeling a part
From the crowd
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
Dribble Dribble Stop
The Player Takes a Jump Shot
The Ball Swishes in
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Mutual ************ in Madrid,
Athens in the winter tans me red,
Paris lamps, romantic power grid,
Venice swishes, watching me give head.
Caribbean wave locks me to the sand,
Fresh water fish Frenchly kiss my hair,
Land’s End extends a silver hand,
And all the angels know that I am there.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
A lost coyote, she howls
And scowls ripping branches
A witches tantrum
Making tall pines
Stir in their pots
As powerful as naught
Nautical miles
A sail in the air
A mystical mare
The mountains stand peaceful in the distance
A ridge of resistance
Against her insistence blows
But the energy in me grows
I need this though
I commune with thee
I appreciate the need
To scream and sing
To let your voices ring
Through the mountain air
To shout to others beware
The wind witches that swishes
For river coffee are here
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 1:00 PM UTC
I sit at I home trying to get my **** together
I am out in the public trying to show that
I have my **** together
Some days I have my **** together better than others
Some days anxiety floods my brain
with thoughts that
swishes swashes and sway
in random unpredictable directions
These days when my **** isn't together
I walk in public faking the best laugh and smile
Happiness is a decision
but my happy is an empty piggy bank
that broke before it was even used
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
ten men fishing
on auckland wharf
all with thin fibreglass rods
just that exact distance
(made in china)
all watching each others baits
bobbing in the silver sheen
no one watching his own sinker
bobbing
one twitches down the line
a reel swishes
reeling in
nine men watching intently now
20 cm struggling catch
not much, so back it goes.
a bronze whaler
slinking slowly
under twenty pairs of dangling feet
decides
the distance was too much
to crunch a man for snack
quietly slinks
to the opposite shore
where she senses
feet splashing on a shallow beach.
primitive.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11438556-the-fishermen-on-the-wharf-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HWKslwYM.dpuf
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
My muscles tighten, righted after the flight
Goose-flesh ripples as she shimmers past
Licked lips flecked with taste
Hair whispers swishes across the shoulders
Lingering fingertips brush vainly at her arm
She’s already gone
She’s lost among the crowd
Of hopefuls twirling by in the flow
Lost dance in lost lovers’ eyes
Deadened by scent of sweat and alcohol
Lingering touch and fading life
Hard pulses of music flow and ebb
She’s already gone
Lost among the crowd
cc2011
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
The seaside is the prime example of lovers
The way it trembles, swishes and sways
Like humans under the covers
Just longing to stay there for days
But alas, it could not break the tight seal of reality
The shore and the tide, bound to part in all of their pain
Still, amidst this pretentious practicality
They go on adoring one another all the same
It’s like hills, you see
The way that we slide together and apart
Dear boy, it is you and me
And I pray, it is a sacred art
Of slipping and sliding and going insane
Of crashing together and mixing together
Me part of you, and you of me, the same
Making the parting all the more pregnant with pain
But, dear, you know what I see?
I see the world flooded over, the water never to leave – what you and I, I and you can forever be.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Look for the point of contact
Savor the moment of friction
She has straight cut bangs
And a necklace that has a
Hamsa hand with an eye in
The middle of the palm
She blinks large blue eyes
That are rimmed with
Long, dark, black eyelashes
She leans her long neck
Her dark, dark hair
Swishes at her pale collar bones
She purses her light, light pink
Lips that have touched to many
Lovely red beating hearts
She puts her skinny fingers on
Your hand from across
The dinner table, across the coffee
And the half-smoked cigarettes
You glance at how the light
Reflects off of all those piercings
Up & down her ears
Her lips part & she says very slowly,
Pronouncing each syllable one by one
"Let-s, ge-t ou-t of he-re."
You throw a *** of cash on the table
Not caring if it's the right amount
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
Red – the colors match underneath
the mashing of trashed feet. A bittersweet
scent swishes around our soft palates
until intoxication renders us useless.
The artificial artisan could’ve gone lighter,
but she knew it wouldn’t have been as
beautiful. I gasp and gaze, looking for the
fake signs that she had felt the same.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
I long to taste a sugar plum off the ****** tree,
walk in the field of golden grass just to feel.
I want to feel the sugar plum tree, high at stake and bright with sweet bumble nests.
We all talk about apple trees, but why not the plum tree?
Gracefully swaying it's branches in the summers light.
I long to taste a sugar plum, laced in sweet white crystals.
The juice flows through our mouths, fresh, cold, and sweet.
Deep colors from it's roots to it's leaves, we have brown, light purple to dark purple, which we call plum, green delight how beautiful it is in my sight. I want a sugar plum, to bite into it's fruitful dismay and lay on natures green bed, so soft, so gentle. Stare into the clouds watching them gently float by, a cool breeze of sweet air swishes amongst my earthly face as i fall asleep under the sugar plum tree.
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
Cliché is the glue of our bubblegum-flavored MTV culture,
Because we order language to go and with extra cheesy.
We pour words into televisions and radios,
And sent those waves to space.
We do this because the very vastness of our language
Is oozing from our ears like a runny nose,
And the torrents of tongues cannot seem
To penetrate the walls of the Jersey Shore.
Sometimes at night, Katie Couric weeps.
She bawls into the darkness when she realizes
That most of her viewers are waiting for her to shut up,
Like parents waiting for the baby to fall asleep,
Because there is *** to be had
And maybe Charlie Sheen will say something funny tonight.
We are tweeting away our TV-dinner monologues.
The cardinals miss our singing,
The way my “s” swishes against my “h,”
And the slightest stutter of my best friend,
Like a drum-solo-blue-jazz-soul-snare.
There is a river of modified nouns
This world has not had the privilege
To have run over their naked bodies.
Words that are chocolate-flavored like “cinnamon”
Curl up in your lap and scratch
The deepest part of your throat,
Where syntax has gone to hide away.
This river has been ****** by a thesaurus
That wants everything to be a synonym for ****
So I’ve got cliché stuck to my brain
Like gum beneath a classroom seat,
Like *********** that I can’t turn away from,
Disgusted though I may be,
Because everybody’s doing it.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
Food swirls and swishes around his mouth.
He needs a washing machine for his clothes and a flannel for his hungry smile.
He brings the sun.
My very hungry caterpillar a.k.a my grandson.
So Grandma says you see.
Baby Bradley,mini boy!
The apple of his Nannas' eye.
(c) Livvi
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
*white caps, near her shore
nothing more--those and voices
in the breaking waves
she alone hears,
as code deciphered,
their scribe, she is
faithful to the crashing
rhythm, in which she reads
the dance of the dead
countless fishes' swishes,
harpooned whales’ wailing, myriad men
mourning, as vessels foundered
white caps, waves, sand
symphony she alone hears, sees, smells
and understands as dirge*
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
*Glimpsed in red,
under dappled shade,
a tail swishes. A tale sways,
safely in that emerald glade,
for you, alone, she plays.*
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
I say again: the fifties film “Forbidden Planet”
Brought us “Monsters from the Id”
Where your worst nightmares
Were brought to life
From the deepest recesses
Of your subconscious mind.
The Id is such a frightful thing.
It can create the greatest pleasure
Or the most horrific monster.
Even God may have an Id.
Maybe that Id created this heavenly hell
We call Earth.
Does anyone anywhere have any control
Of The Id?
Probably not.
Those mountains of our mind
No man fathomed.
Gloomy jungles infested by crocodiles.
Endless depths.
The Id holds all the cards,
Letting us have a memory
Now and then.
Imagine if our dreams
Could truly come to life!
Bad enough that the alligator within us
Swishes with fear
And anger
The moment we feel threatened
When really we are safe
As “Mindfulness” shows.
Yes, the Id is King of the brain,
No democracy here
And all we can do
Is play along
As best we can.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\2\18.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:18 AM UTC
He’s sitting there, Beats on music bumping
Losing himself in the rhythm letting the flow
Psych him up, his coach walks over and yells
At him GET YOUR *** OUT THERE. He takes
Off his headphones the final beat bringing
Back a memory
He was sitting there, the coach told him to
Take the bench, the other starter was out
There, where he should be. Gym class picked
Last again told he ***** no one wants him.
He’s tired of not being good enough he vows
To never let it happen again. And so he dedicates
Himself, pushing, driving, putting in the work
Needed to be a star, almost giving up
He never did
The ref looks at him and tells him to step up.
He steps up to the mat, he skates to the line,
He breaks from the huddle, toes the invisible
Line, steps up to the plate, steps Up next to his
teammate, steps up to the foul Line
The whistle blows
He shoots for the legs, he passes the puck
He throws the spiral, he throws his hands up
He swings his bat, passes the ball, takes the
Shot…..
He pins him in 30 secs and wins the championship,
He puts the puck in the back of the net for
The win, He throws another touchdown
Pass, He pulls down the most amazing catch
He crushes the ball for a homerun,
He kicks the ball into the net, he swishes
The ball, nothing but net
They call him the legend, champion
The monster, invincible, hall of famer
They ask how he done it?
He never gave up on that vow and he
Step up
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
Many days,
Poetry will not coax me out of my stupor
with the zest of a child
on the first day of summer.
Many days,
she will not make a sound
as she runs through a house
made of my words - no anklet tinkling against silvery feet,
no soft swishes of her dupatta across the sofa.
Many days,
Poetry would like to leave me alone
- in my home of rust and rubble,
in the middle of technicolour trouble,
me surrounded by blunt edges
of half-chipped words,
half-baked rhythm (never rhyme), half-sighed syllables onto blank paper.
Many days,
Poetry sees me accept complete defeat,
with art gathering dust
in the pages of notebooks that will never need filling,
with pens that will never be picked up, with ideas that will never be strung into a poem.
And yet here I am.
Picking up frayed string ends,
trying to tie them into a verse,
to leave it on the first shelf for her
to hopefully pick up.
It might be time for Poetry
to take 29 slowstumblingstuttering steps towards me,
this is me taking the first.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
she inhales sharp
the foliage ***** her in a diver entering the deep
in the pine needles she sees the motions of the universe
she is self conscious about her adam’s apple
she swishes pasta water around in her mouth
google search: how to kiss
how to behave in a relationship
how to cure chapped lips
… she doesn’t know how to be sentimental, only
to take off her shorts and lay still
it’d be nice to take the initiative
she’s not sad as often now:
there is comfort in apathy and burning liquor and the scent of another on the sheets
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Have you ever washed the blood of another off of yourself?
Standing under the shower’s rain,
Rinsing, and scrubbing the blood off your face and arms.
Staining the tile where you stand;
Swirling hypnotically down the drain.
I shot you;
I’m the reason you’re dead,
And the splatter of blood across my face proves it.
The gunpowder is still under my nails,
Black as ever as if I scratched my way out of my own coffin into yours.
I’m still coughing up dirt, I swear.
I stabbed you;
I’m the reason you won’t wake up.
The blade glimmered as I twisted it into you so fluidly.
I was afraid to pull it out,
Afraid that a piece of myself was embedded in you too.
The dagger is a shade of red and brown as if you were ***** just like me.
I killed you!
Can’t you see? You can’t.
But, I believe, no, I know you feel it somewhere.
Somehow.
This water isn’t hot enough.
It’s not scalding enough to burn the feeling of you off of me.
But the blood,
Oh, the blood.
A never ending crimson sea, a deep bleeding river of you, slowly, but surely, disappearing from existence.
I run a bath,
The shower wasn’t enough.
I’m still stained.
I’m still tainted,
I’m still bleeding into someone who isn’t me.
The water swishes as I settle in.
Back and forth, up and down,
Over and under the sides of the tub.
The water won’t stop turning red,
A deep red.
A reminder that I killed you,
That I shot you,
That I stabbed you.
That I don’t regret it,
But regret isn’t guilt.
Is it?
It’s ******
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 11:31 PM UTC
Isaiah is a person who sees nothing in himself but I personally think he has potential to be anything.
I think Isaiah is one of the greatest friend I had..
He's the guy who brings light and life to the party weather its just a small talk or just a long walk.
He lightens up everything around me.
His hair swishes back and forth like a guy coming out
The ocean splattering water all over the beautiful sand.
The way his little frekles line up on his face.
His nose is circular shape & I love every little form of it.
Isaiah has a personality that tops everything he has.
Isaiah is one of those friends I thank I have in my life.
He brings humour to my dull life. And without him I wouldn't know the meaning of a great, stupid, ******** hilarious friendship.
Isaiah is just one of a kind. Which makes him really special To me (:
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Smooth and swift
these words fill
the page,
black curves,
glistening
smudged by my hands
Or halting and stiff,
the graphite pencil,
wooden switches and swishes
and my terrible punctuation
Half-formed figures
and plots riddled
with holes,
my broken babies
I write these lines for you
small and quiet,
uneven spaces
and bad grammar,
because speaking is so loud
and my voice is hoarse
and my tongue trips
and stumbles,
and I cannot find the words
to say
to you.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 4:32 PM UTC
Voices rang throughout the willow,
Symphonic, Angelic, free...
They defined this lovely tree.
Its own heart be,
as wise and true as the forest that surrounds it,
both old and new.
The Willow swishes its branches that gracefully dance,
moving to the beat of the music.
which hath put it in this trance.
The Willow is old,
The Willow is wise,
It knoweth thy soul,
behind your very eyes.
Its beauty is undefined,
Mythical and refined.
It sings along in kind.
You know your soul when it sings with thee,
The heart and soul of a tree.
They move, sing and cry.
Even within the darkest night.
The Willow is archaic,
as the earth it grows upon,
Renewed and restored,
by its mother above.
Pray for thee,
for it knoweth the end be soon,
When one day it may die,
Along with the forest too.
Thy soul of the Willow will live on,
It may also speak to thee,
within spirit...
of song.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
Curiosity poured into a being
Tail swishes from side to side, eyeing the mental world hustling around it
Staying out of it.
Keeping its distance.
Smart choice, furry one.
Keeping out of the bitter *******
Yet we choose to point out their wise choice,
Claiming it to be rude,
Only curious ones see it as it is.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC