"towel" poems
six lanes
in a sight line
past the cedar shims
and trim tempered insert
past the washed mural
and water stained tiles
covered eyes
fight for focus
over cork strung ties
and dark distant bridges
foot crawlers on lemon pegs
teaming
under clouded halogen light
dreamers contend
in a variation of chant
(throwing it off in a
drawl sequence)
a glimpse of the guard
and warm towel assignment
forge comforting relief
in a task filled day
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
*she dragged me out of the house
knowing i was feeling down
not allowing me to wallow
in my self pity,
she dressed me,
painted my face
fashioned my hair,
that’s my girl friend
at Juliana’s,
small family owned Italian restaurant,
a gem of a find, she said,
Lorenzo, greeted her with familiarity
(she leaves a memorable impression)
she introduced me as her bestie
with a twinkle in her eye
young (as all under 30 people are to me)
handsome, dark thick curly haired,
with dancing eyes,
a serving towel over his left arm
nodded with a genuine smile
i smiled back despite my mood
wine was swirled, smelled,
sampled and selected
a captivating performance,
executed expertly
she watched me
watching him
describe the specials
with a melodic Italian accent
transforming my mood
garlic knots wafting with his stride,
placed on the table
with a small bowl of marinara sauce
still hovering
in his long lean fingers
it slipped,
splattering red stain
on the pristine white cloth
without skipping a beat
his eyes poured into mine
words emerged
“forgive me, your beauty made me nervous”*
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
The beach
WOOOSH
.......Whoosh.....
Sand
Water
Whoosh swoosh of the waves
Cute boys in the water
Whoosh swoosh
Of the water.
In my towel
Whoosh..... swoosh......
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
We know the world is a crazy place
and that is it easy to give up, throw in the towel.
The idealism of youth gives way to the cynicism of middle age
when we realize that despite our best efforts, change is very difficult.
To be a parent and, in particular, to be a father....why bother?
Some say fatherhood is driven by ego,
the child providing the ultimate selfish representation of oneself.
Others say driven by fear,
the fear of mortality and the unconscious and genetic need
to propagate and maintain our lineage, our species, our world.
While both can be true, I believe the best manifestation of fatherhood
is driven by tikkun olam, a Jewish concept that we all have an obligation
to better the world, to move it to a better state than currently exists.
We do what we can when on this earth to love our family, friends,
and be as righteous as this world will allow.
Our genetic legacy is not nearly as important as
our obligation to pass on what we know, have learned, have experienced,
and enable our children
to carry the mission to an always higher level.
No matter what our belief in the afterlife, and what the future may hold
we are here now in THIS life,
and as long as we move the ball further and further
in the right direction, there can be hope.
Truly being a father, a good father, enables hope. Maybe that is enough.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 7:17 AM UTC
On a roof in the Old City
Laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight:
The white sheet of a woman who is my enemy,
The towel of a man who is my enemy,
To wipe off the sweat of his brow.
In the sky of the Old City
A kite.
At the other end of the string,
A child
I can't see
Because of the wall.
We have put up many flags,
They have put up many flags.
To make us think that they're happy.
To make them think that we're happy.
13k
It feels like my wrists are burning
Blood is dripping down my arms
My head keeps screaming
I shouldn't of self-harmed.
My mom is going to be mad.
She's going to hit me again.
Give me another bruise.
Now my scars have some friends.
Just wash off the blood.
Dry off with the towel.
Wrap up your arms.
Go back to your personal bubble.
Isolate yourself for another week little girl.
Take you medicine.
And jump off the hill.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
See them standing on the podium of promises
Tickling us to wed them into power
As we stand under the burning sun, sweaty as ever
All ears to their flowered words of which they caress
And powdered our minds with.
They donate maggi, salt, wears and the root of all evil,
To further blind our minds and instinct.
Like goats following a hand with a palm fruit,
We chased them with high hopes to the polls,
Like Esau of old we repay their donation with our votes.
Their desires were met, now in power
At serious battle against their promises,
Our faith getting lean, our hopes bleed in response to their policies.
The opposition jubilant for the failure of the electorates.
Soon, they awoke into reality, spur to abort incumbent reign.
Some took to bombs, guns, cutlasses, few to the streets.
The opposition soldiers are thugs, always hungry to ****
The masses weapons are their mouth, placards,
And solidarity songs, they walk and sing.
They say when elephants fight the grasses suffer
I wonder who are the elephants or the grasses indeed.
A place that suppose to be our home now a battle field
Where everyone fights for self survival
Forgetting the unborn, our toddlers, our heroes past.
It is high time we talked and sack the thugs
But who will moderate
Who will faithfully give audience, who will sincerely talk?
The elite, the elected seems like they are war ready
They have well set up their political troops
A war they won't stand to fight
But escape through thinning air off our sight.
In a molding state
Pigs dare to preach sanity
In a world of questions, ignorance remain the worst cancer
And the apex poverty.
Let not fold our hands and live to die in this doom
If your lips are scared, let your pen speak.
Let not throw in the towel
Until we justfully elapse the reign of the unwanted in one peace.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
I have missed me
I have missed us
Things have not been the same
Maybe someone else is using our name
Some days it feels like we are hands on a clock
just going through all the motions
Other days we are never seen at all
Maybe its just our memory that answers the call
So I miss me
I miss us
Could there be anymore space between us
We are not the same
Maybe someone else is using our name
Is there still love between us
Could things go back to what they were before
Don't we deserve love too
Or do we love ourselves more
Oh how I miss me
I miss us
When we are not the same
For so long now
Someone's been using our name
Not even sure if our hearts work anymore
or if those parts have already died
Do we take a chance on love gone lost
Or just give up throw in the towel and hide
I still do miss me
As I do us
Will we ever be the same
We are trapped inside
Screaming out our name
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
Am I attractive, hot, or ****
Or just a forlorn idiot flexing
In order to join the *** scene?
I put a towel down
And set up a picnic
My head spins round
From the dirt they kick
On my meal
To make me feel
Scared and alone
With nowhere to roam
So I stay here laying in the sun
On the other side of a Gatling gun
I searched for a savior
Who's willing to say words
To me
For free
My search was fruitless
My eyes turned youthless
I grazed in the grass
As time quickly passed
After I finished my food
And was left there to brood
I became a floating satellite
That was accustomed to night
Because of my frights
That reflected all light
Now I see ants trying to feed on my crumbs
They must think I'm pretty desperately dumb
To not know they enforced my segregation
When I had naively sought validation
I waited there silently salivating
They responded by not validating
It's for that bitter reason
During my new season
I reflect my light on the approaching ants
So I may thwart their encroaching dance
My humble heart yearns
As I watch bugs burn
They wouldn't partake in my feast
So I morphed into a brutish beast
Now they're here to eat what's left
If they can survive my dragon's breath
They put out the fire in my heart
But ignited my mind
My useless humanity parts
As I focus on time
A time that keeps passing
While signs keep flashing
As burning bugs dying
Or sad satellites flying
My life was no peaceful picnic
After they noticed my sickness
And left me alone
For that is my home
When I don't need validation anymore
I search for love
Unfortunately I know what's in store
A picnic in the mud
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
You are the rock stuck inside of my sock.
You are drying off naturally after the longest shower in history, because you forgot the towel.
Like the string that is hanging off of my sweater. I keep tugging it and
pretty soon it is short enough for July weather.
The person using the car horn instead of ringing a door bell.
The low battery symbol on my cell.
Pungent perfume from a co-worker, the grossest smell.
The **** that asks for the red piece from your package of sweets.
The friend who cancels five minutes before every time you meet.
The rap artist that thanks God when he wins an award, even though his
songs are just about killing.
Medical technicians milling about when your arm really is broken.
The chapstick left in the pocket when the clothes are in a dryer.
Dress pants for work that are so tight, you feel you must be riding a wire.
The friend's children that you think are rude,
Unexpected company when you and your lover were getting in the mood.
But I guess it is just easier to say, I just don't have a good attitude.
Apr 19, 2010
Apr 19, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
Hometown boys today aren’t like the ones my grandmother remembers.
Back then they looked like decent folk.
Hair combed, pants the right size,
always greeting with “Excuse me, miss.”
But today, most of them ain’t worth your while.
Standing in shadows, lurking by the train stations.
Looking like criminals.
There’s no formality or decency with these boys.
“Hey, girl! Where you goin’?”
M’ name ain’t girl. You aren’t supposed to answer these kind.
“Hey! You hear me talkin’a you?”
These are the kind of men who you’re supposed to run from.
So relaxed and limp
like snakes.
Not a care in the world.
Up on their high horses when they can’t even find the **** saddle.
Who the hell do they think they are?
Hometown boys ain’t nothing like they were
decades ago.
The kind you bring home to meet your mama and your sister.
The kind that bring sunflowers on Sundays.
The kind that call you late at night
just to see if you made it home safe and sound.
The kind that sadly go unnoticed today.
So few of them left.
So few of the sweet old-fashioned boys.
The kind that never call you ‘gull’.
They don’t come out much these days.
Probably looked at all the other hometown boys
and decided to throw in the towel and stay home.
Pity.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
i want to get to know you.
i remember thinking that when i first met you.
i wanted to get to know everything about you.
what you look like in the morning, what you look like at night, what your hair is like if you jokingly put it up in a towel, what your family is like, what words you use a lot.
what your favorite scent of febreeze is, what color you describe the sky as, what you think of when you see something beautiful.
what your favorite creamer is to put into your coffee or if you even like coffee, what you look like at 2am when you're feeling alone.
how you speak when you are angry in comparison to when you are sad (so i will never get the two mixed up), what you want as a tattoo, what you believe in.
i wanted to know everything that i could fall in love with.
and i learned that there is no one else i would rather know, than you.
because absolutely everything about you is intriguing, from what you look like in the morning to what you dare to believe in.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
If you could see us now,
huddled up
on this bathroom floor
like the wet towel in the corner,
a most-likely-used toilet brush
covered in
ash & hair
is the next closest thing
in arm's reach
to a real statement.
You want to know what it's about?
You do not
want to know what it's about.
To dunk those
pearly whiteheads
in oil and expect
a brighter shine
would just be silly.
Take the bedazzlings from
their feet
and what is left to judge
that which they do not
want to know?
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
My mind used to run
A day ahead
And sometimes
It would get lost in
Weeks ahead.
Now,
All I can think about
Is you and me
Feet buried in cool sand.
One towel to shield us
From the ocean breeze.
My head on your shoulder
Your head resting against mine.
And how beautiful it is—
The world in our now.
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
Do you know the meaning of "stop and frisk"?
I'm sorry black brother, you do.
Have you ever had to change your voice in order to get a job?
I'm sorry black sister, you have.
Have you ever had to remove your hijab because you needed to take a flight?
I'm sorry brown girl, you have.
Has anyone ever insisted you have extensive knowledge on every school subject?
I'm sorry yellow friend, someone has.
Have you ever been told to go back to your country, despite the fact that you're already there?
I'm sorry red man, you have.
Have you ever been called and illegal immigrant, but you were born in the u.s?
I'm sorry Latino friend, you have.
Have you ever been told that racism doesn't exist and, by someone with pale skin?
I know I have.
So this is to the ones who have been told that they "aren't black enough" because they use proper grammar and their pants don't sag.
The brown boys with beards that get called "towel heads"
To the Asian kids that are just as smart as the next guy.
To the native Americans that still get called Indians.
To the brown girls that get told that they don't have to wear their scarves because "we're in America"
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Months away from such joy
In hopes of finding something better
And in the end,
Addiction is just a love story
Between you and your oppressor
And now believing I can never be free
As willpower isn't enough,
Throwing in the towel
And rolling with the tide,
Is my best chance at freedom.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
your hair appears darker
when wet.
black, corded,
thick as puzzlegrass.
a companion in contrast
to frosted
cupcake blue eyes and
incense burning
in the ashtray.
memories thrown
in the laundry pile
with the wet towel
swirling upon
your head.
your smile
bitter as asparagus,
staining my *****
for the next two days.
your frame
soft and slender
as balsa wood.
I’d eat your air
freshly oxygenated
and bend you into
an arc.
the waves would split
on your bow
and shower my face
wet
dark
corded
thick as puzzlegrass.
then
from your finger
the standard of a
dove leaving
olive branch in
mouth
into the frosted
cupcake blue
sky.
a miracle in
the eye of the
waning storm.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
Go grab your wetsuit
your sunblock and wax
go get a clean towel
put them all in your pack
I'll watch as the sun beams from your face
and feel the breeze stirred by your running flip-flopped feet
I'll laugh as you shout "YES" and fistpump the air
This is us.
Our thing.
We.
Surfs up li'l dude!
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
The boy haden't bathed in over a month
His **** crack was itching and burning
His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck
And his toes a thick jam were churning
His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw ***
His breath smelled like rancid fish
His hair was so oily, matted to his head
His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss
"Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died
When he raised his arm to exclaim.
"I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!"
"I sure hope the washcloths are brave."
"To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran
And his underpants sloppily squished
"I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth"
"And my mother I will kiss!"
"The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped.
And he stopped there to get some stuff.
Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two.
But he knew that it wasn't enough.
Look though he might, to his horror and fright,
Not a single washcloth could he find.
Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin
Was driving him out of his mind.
He looked yet again but to his chagrin
The washcloth shelf was bare.
The washcloths had run off
For they would not wash
So filthy a boy on a dare
"Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!"
The boy cried as flies swarmed his head.
"I'd **** myself but I already smell"
"Far worse than anything dead!"
Then one washcloth came back
Holding it's nose and a sack
Of bath salts that smelled like dill.
It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!"
"And give me a nausea pill!"
So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub
With water, hot as he could stand.
And using the bath salts, he jumped right in
And the pickling began.
He lathered the washcloth with water and soap
And scrubbed with all of his might.
Away he washed all of the filth
'Til none was left in sight.
He washed his hair and brushed his teeth
And dried and dressed himself well.
And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub
"Holy crap! that was pure hell!"
So the boy now clean ran to be seen
By his mother he loved so much.
And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!"
"I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!"
The moral I'll tell you and true I will be
So no one will say that I lied.
Don't wait a whole month to take a bath
Or you washcloths may run and hide.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
I know you don't do well in the cold or in the rain;
You scramble around trying to save your hair
and you jabber nonsensically in the cutest way,
you shiver and you mumble and your hands and nose go cold.
But that's just a temporary, mundane blemish
on the beautiful temple that is your body,
one that a jacket can guard from, or a towel can wipe off.
But your heart, your fortress of a heart, is what I worry about.
I know it hurts too, I know all too well that it does.
I know that sometimes, you sit in a sea of blankets and warmth,
but your heart still aches with a horrible chill.
I know that although you may be sheltered,
it sometimes feels like your heart is stranded in a downpour
and your fortress cracks sometimes.
I don't know how to tell you or show you that
I will stand in a hurricane to hold an umbrella over your heart,
I will build you a home and a hearth to warm your bones,
when all you feel is broken and numb
I will hold you and kiss you until
all of your beautiful puzzle pieces are put back together.
So don't mind the rain, sweetheart.
I'll always be
an umbrella for your heart.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Maid in China
she was my ayi in Shanghai
a diminutive young lady with a beautiful smile
tough as nails though small and shy
everyday she would walk a dusty mile
to cook and clean at my whim
and bathe my tense body of beaded sweat
after working out at the private gym
her mastery of sponge I would never forget
her soft hands and pale skin a visual treat
her dark hair and eyes that glitter like an Asian moon
large Persian towel there to dry my feet
offering me a taste without the use of spoon
she was my maid but more my lover
though her duties she refused to dash
she had pride like no one other
her naked body shown thru undone sash
I sweep her up and take her in my arms
carry her to my bed of silken sheets
for hours I avail myself of her charms
with rice wine and candied sweets
her kisses sweet and always select
the beauty of her warm wet ******
she knew the ways to keep me *****
she was my perfect maid in China
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Whistle sounds, alarm beeps
Battle drums, my heart beats
Rising sun, crowing ****
It is here, riddle me
Silent bath, floating thoughts
Towel dry, connected dots
Tucked in shirt, shiny shoes
One quick prayer, banished blues
Speeding cars, crowded trains
Changing lights, fast paced lanes
Blaring horns, jamming doors
Quiet rides, bone-face walks
Smell the air, raise your chin
**** in chair, eye on screen
A sip of coffee and you know you'll win
Welcome to Monday, you can get through
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
This is a poem I must write,
and hopefully not recite
I feel like an old, twisted,
used dish towel thrown across a kitchen sink
my insides opened wide, and the color of pink
pushed aside like nothing at all
just hanging there waiting to fall
I can’t even comprehended
what my heart must feel
this feeling inside can’t be real
there is just no answer; but when will it end?
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC