"teapots" poems
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
Resting is never easy, with the stirring of empty thoughts, like clanging little bells and spilling mold from teapots. I sit and drink of folly and greet my guests there, for I’ll never get to resting if I don’t have my fair share. Though the poison may eat me up, I tie wonderland’s ribbon round my neck, and jump the spout into the drink to take my given due. Again I kiss the teacup’s lip and mumble “I love you."
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother's milk
Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers' bones made white for miles
The pastureless wet pasture grounds.
Day after day, night after night,
From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
Instead of nature's nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
And rubbed it with a woolly head.
Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails
Skipping and leaping on the lea,
Bleating in tender, trustful tones,
Resting on rocky crag or mound,
And following the beloved feet
That once had sought for them and found.
These very shepherds of their flocks,
These loving lambs so meek to please,
Are worthy of recording words
And honor in their due degrees:
So I might live a hundred years,
And roam from strand to foreign strand,
Yet not forget this flooded spring
And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
1.8k
if you need to talk,
call the scrap yard.
ask for the girl
who sifts through debris
and finds spare parts
that can try to replace
your failing ones.
I will answer
to whistling teapots
and accumulated newspapers
if you don’t have time to call;
drinking gasoline so I don’t fall asleep,
and oil for stability.
if the things I find
cannot help,
I will relinquish my function
so I don’t fail you too—
the sum of my parts
could never make a whole
as lovely as yours, anyway.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
do they sell emotions
in teapots by the street
i'll take the blue and white one
checkered like a dorothy dress-
could i buy emotions
to pour them out in porcelain
what's the cost? a penny apiece
for the teapots by the street-
drink them up, for an hour
maybe i'd feel love
recipt, madam? yes please
i'll take my penny-bought tea-
i would buy emotions
in teapots by the street
here you are, love- take it please
one less teapot by the street
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Dreams of entertainment
Full of amazement and surprises
Take a back seat Beauty and the Beast
We are a standalone being our feast
The music being for us both
Together we took an oath
A Teapot and cup and saucers are the ones who know
We will carry the show
Just follow the flow
Song and dance and perhaps a sketch
You the audience will have to catch
Creating the right effect
We don’t want the audience to reject
We will not be mean only lean
You won’t see much of a pour
Only our total performing galore
Our story our very own and it will be full blown
Teapot became a theory
Cup and Saucers a mystery
We were always sitting on a shelf or convent
Barely used or not used at all
We were considered a prop
I always had to accept like it or not
It was simply “NOT”
Disney thought they had it right
We took it as a plight
We were determined to show our talent
We refused to be silent
When the curtain rose and the spotlight was on
First the teapot went through the audience and asked, “Do you want some tea?”
The audience didn’t know exactly in how to respond other than laugh
The music started and that’s entertainment
Then the cup and saucers with their enchanting voices stating we are Cup and Saucers best
You are our guest
But we have only one request, “Don’t expect us to serve”
We are entertainment and that is what you deserve
Let’s go back into Teapot and cup and saucers time
On the table a teapot and cup and saucers that was always there
Alone with barely a touch
That doesn’t sound much
The table of beauty being a setting and we were decorative
Being objective
There was a party and the Teapot and Cup and Saucers were the highlight
Ready to fulfill
At will
Determined
There was some pour and detail
But without fail
Beautiful friendship
Pleasure to be your acquaintance
Music still playing enchanted
The stage is now full of dancers
Flashing lights
Teapot and Cup and Saucers dancing in delight
We shall dance
Suddenly the beast appeared being angry and upset
The duo of Teapot and cup and saucers had an effect
The question came up from the beast in why he wasn’t invited?
The response, Teapots and cup and saucers are the entertainers and you are only the prop when needed
It was on with the show
We put the beast finally in the know
The finale being an encore, the teapot and cup and saucers together a team
The audience stood up and applauded and the curtain came down
It was a teapot and cup and saucers with a pouring spirit
You have to give them merit
That’s entertainment the way it was meant to be
Encore
Aug 8, 2023
Aug 8, 2023 at 3:27 PM UTC
The Couch Potato is glued to the screen with his tin foil hat on
He sees tailor made charades being played for keeps
Superficial calling cards being dropped into mailboxes
Gravy trains being engineered by some guy subject to temper tantrums and growing pains
Window shoppers searching for second hand teapots, swear jars and unofficial other halves
To him it's all real
Is he wrong?
Put on your dunce cap and ponder that
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
You hate (them)
like electric teapots
and you wish you could stop
Stop the screaming
All I want to do
is make those fevered lights
fade
Make you the only creature in my world
And I try
But I can't
Stuck in this liminal timefold
Rabbit Hole
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
the sky was on fire this
morning. the whole world
stood still, ablaze.
i was asleep, though. asleep
and dreaming of missing you.
like i usually am.
in the interim time periods
amidst two
weeks
too
late resolutions i
always say it's always too late i
think i'm going or gone insane;
asleep and over hills
and hills and
hills that don't exist, how
can the world still spin with
its one glimmering turning point so
far away?
i let the birds open up
the window, let
choke my lungs on
clean air, choke me from
tender clouds, all cutapart endings,
rusty-hinged doorways.
from dreams i never wanted anyway.
dreams of your wet eyes.
i'm not drunk though. just a mess.
*and you know how i love you,
too. in quiet frequencies and
teapots and cold mornings, in
birdsong and my slow
anxieties.
but you already know that.*
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
This hotel serves green tea on golden platters
I bite into it like liquid has a spine,
circular piston cradling a ladder to my tongue
the giant beanstalk, I sleep here and awake
somewhere else with morning meals
already stomached in a stasis –
just how ****** lucidly bled the rugged hand
he forcefully bled under her summer dress:
I am here, I am her with you
as I hike teapots and escape each new room.
For the next, it has squeaky cots –
you heave me to the breakfast bar prior to sun
so I do not whine when heat hits my face,
there is not tea here, bottles of Coke are okay:
a slow content because they’ll hear if we churn.
And unlocking the stall from an exterior view,
it is the wall that looks attractive for one
lollylike little girl, the old man warm & ugly,
insomnia only goes when he wants to fly south.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
look for me
in the incandescent
noise of the
rush hour crowd
hear me
in the scent
of whistling teapots
and unfinished books
find me
in unwritten words
and silenced thoughts
sink into my mind
and weigh down my
battered eyelids
sleep
visit me soon
for I fear
it may be
too late
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
My nose is my enemy,
Gathering ammo from the very air,
To be fired with an echoing report.
“God bless you!”
Pets, grass, space heaters, soap, the sun.
When I fight; it only becomes stronger.
If I take the defensive; it awaits an opening
like a samurai.
“God bless you!”
I give offering of exotic scents and tissues,
Of drugs and strange teapots,
Though these are but momentary distractions
As it plots my demise.
“God help you.”
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
*I am wine in a jack-in-a-box cellar
Wonderlands, neverlands propelling in a boomerang war
Exalting stubborn as weeds in the gardens of well-tended graves
As far off as the most withered waves*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*Eyes turned upside down like folded floral peels before a fallen angel
Rubbing errant pointed brushes against an airy easel
The teapots are now dancing round rainbow tornadoes
Clocks reverse themselves in a scourge of a prose*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*Singing horses dallying kings and queens with whips of cod
Skinny, scorned nutcrackers lolly gagging for a later maraud
Spoons racing Jack and Jill down a spiny valley of prats
I'd shut them off, they come alive with vicious spats*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*My trappings with all things mad
Wafted me ajar a silvery smoke of sad
I breathe the clouds of my helter skelter
As if in every catatonic whir it flutters rises an answer*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
It was always a joke,
“I couldn’t make it”
Was always just a game,
You were always there anyway,
You always came,
It felt like magic.
You wove your way into my every day life,
You took over the small private comforts
That I used to stay alive,
Teapots,
Work gloves,
Scarves,
Mugs,
You pushed yourself into my existence.
Every time the world was destroying me,
Every time it was too much,
Every time I couldn’t handle it all,
You were suddenly there,
Like magic,
Like my own little miracle.
Please just give me one more tiny miracle...
Don’t do this to me.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.
sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.
it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.
i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.
.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
You were always shocked
when I would ask questions
that to you were seemingly
unnecessary,
trivial,
purposeless,
by your harsh definition.
Like you favourite colour.
Orange, you said.
When I wanted to know if your preference
leaned more towards sunsets
or fire
or tamer things,
you told me to stop asking so many questions.
It was orange, that was all.
When you bought flowers
I was surprised to see that they were pink.
It might not have mattered, but it got me thinking
about how much you don’t care to know.
Little things speak volumes,
but you disregard them.
Because it is easier to fall in love
on a superficial level,
but I crave depth.
So here I am in small pieces:
I take my coffee black.
I like to do crosswords in the paper like an old person,
and I can’t finish most of them.
I have terrible vision but refuse to wear glasses.
In quiet moments, I talk with myself like an old friend
and it is a strange illusion.
I collect business cards,
stones,
feathers,
teapots,
and strangers.
I like fridge magnets
and no sound can ****** me
quite like a good song can.
I cry when I'm angry.
I write bad poetry.
I love to laugh.
I’m a terrible swimmer.
I hate the colour pink.
You should have known that much.
At the very least, you should have wanted to.
When it comes to love my dear,
you have a lot to learn.
-Emma Cooper
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
The light in her eyes twinkles like teapots and chiped china
She is chiped china
She comes from a little town where bad things sometimes happen
Like double rainbows draining and dripping down to meet the land
Trickling hearts and minds into reality
You see... that's never where she wanted to be
So she made a casket called home
That's where the broken dolls go so they can rest in peace
Broken down dolly faces
Pouty lips now in different places
crevices and deep spaces
Spiderwebs in the glass that was once whole
Glass Crums licked up by demon babies with tongues ten feet long
Her tears are snow globes
Moisture containing storms of emotion
Like a dresser drawer filled with ocean
...Yes
Her eyes were once stars and shined with curiosity
But it burnt out long ago
Now her seeing tunnels are stained glossy
The world she cannot unsee
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
the days pass by silently without giving me much time to turn around and watch them and when i sit inside my room i am once again greeted by that old, familiar chill of winter
teapots full of emotions are being boiled over a stove that is clearly not warm enough to warm my whole body, but it keeps on burning regardless, and i notice that no one thinks much of anything unless it concerns themselves
i get this chill when the nighttime slows down that things are going to end, that everyone is going to vanish like the snow that tries in vain each year to stay forever, but then my thoughts leave as fast as the warmth of spring
winter is that old friend that you love to see but hate to keep you company when he opens his mouth about the things that used to be, about how you used to look out your window and see him fall behind tears, sparkling eyes, and disappointments and trust me, i get enough headaches nowadays to block out those memories but i can't forget dates in december that shaped who i was in january
if there's a piece of advice i would give someone, someone full of loneliness and desolation, full of the contents of despair, enough so that they feel they could burst, that they feel no matter what they do there will always be a dead end, that feel that they don't even want to write the tragedies they think and experience down in a journal because god forbid someone would ever open it, so they just stay bottled up
if there's one piece of advice i would give to them, it would be let your thoughts pour out like the way old winter brings them back; one night, just cry and let it drain you from any more tears; let that old, hideous, beat down, torn, broken, revolting chill freeze your mind, so that you finally get a break
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily with
a mixture of bleach and
salt,
and then sluiced with clean
ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness
to it,
a wonderful tactile
memory i am still unable
to explain.
sat out on the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
it was an oval behemoth of
a thing,
would easily sit
twelve adults
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two.
excepting
when we arrive to vacation,
then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was
if you took a bit
of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats,
iregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import
or the specials of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent dissection.
i still can feel,
it's surface,
like rolling,
polished pearls.
.....no
...still not explaining it
at all well.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
sprouting from the damp earth
we trod from the muck into the sun
and were glad in it.
we found there, the space to waste time in
and more space to explore with our riveting lives
boiling in the womb of all wombs.
we stride to the heavens undisclosed to religion.
and on approach , we find gods in teapots
steeping the illusions we crave
over hot coals on a sinking
barge.
we are happy as we will the suffering to continue.
but as a flock of flaming gulls
we singe the night sky and the ocean below.
they both burn as we commit to our purpose.
each a sovereign fool
and an angel
shackled to a
spot -
on the Sun.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 2:55 AM UTC
Purple radiant heat
Reverberations of
Exclamations
Horrific holograms
Reality has received;
Testing teapots and
Tourmaline jewelry
Shattered on the wood floors
Fluorescent firecrackers
For days upon hours;
The nape of the neck
Where yours should be
Sheds blood
Pulsating the prophetic
Paralyzing truths;
Home is a verb, the
Truly inspirational
Deception of defeat
And the drip drip drip
Of disillusioned ichor
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 3:39 PM UTC