"tumbler" poems
Sa dami ng mga trabahong tumambak dahil hindi mo pa nagagawa
Mga papeles na nagpatung-patong na
Yung lamesa **** inaagiw na dahil hindi mo alam kung saan at paano magsisimula.
At mga istoryang di mo pa maisulat dahil nangangapa ka pa.
Isama mo na rin yung katrabaho **** nakakairita na sa tenga.
Dahil crush niya daw si Justin Bieber
At paborito niyang frappe sa Starbucks ay Caramel.
Kahit mukhang ang afford niya lang ay Nescafe “Oo nga pala, French Vanilla” na iniinom ni Toni Gonzaga.
Pero wala siyang pambili ng sarili niyang tumbler.
Tangina.
Idagdag mo pa ang mga patay na oras na sunod-sunod ang mga buntong-hininga
Nahuli ka pa ng boss mo na nakatulala
Kaya hayan at napagalitan ka pa.
At dahil contractual ka, yung limang buwan na kontrata mo
Biruin mo, baka mapaaga pa ang endo.
Aminin mo na ang pagpatak ng alas-singko
Ay may kakaibang dalang saya.
Na parang sumagot na ng “oo” yung matagal mo nang nililigawan.
Nakulayan na rin yung mga pinlano niyong outing na buong akala niyo’y hanggang drawing na lang.
Parang pagbabalik sa Pilipinas ng kasintahan **** kumayod sa ibang bansa.
Parang ibinalita sa TV na hindi traffic ngayon sa EDSA.
Himala!
Kaya ang pagsapit ng alas-singko ay kakambal ng paglaya.
Wala sa’yo kung sa bus man ay tayuan
O kaya sa dyip ay makasabit man lang.
Basta makauwi ka lang.
Nakakasabik pa rin ang ideya
Na ang bawat pag-uwi
Ay kasing banayad ng mayroong sasalubong sa’yong ngiti
Mga ngiting papawi sa kangalayan ng mga binti.
Mayroong yakap na nakaabang
Ang mga bisig na nagmistulang pinakapaborito **** kulungan
Dahil doon mo nararamdaman ang tunay na kalayaan.
Mula sa pang-aalipin sa’yo ng lipunan.
Nakahain na rin ang hapunan.
“Mahal, ano ba ang ulam?”
Sabayan natin ito ng mahabang kwentuhan.
Simulan natin sa simpleng kamustahan.
Dahil pagkatapos, ay aabangan mo na naman ang alas-singko kinabukasan.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
I. Neptune’s Theater
A rock spins through the universal tumbler
and its warm blue pools calcify
as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath
builds a lace castle with his fingertips
Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald
where painted parrots chat up cardinals
butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse
and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.
Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched
free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem
beneath an array of bioluminescent stars
as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.
II. Sapien Siege
The hot acidic hand of death grasps
the mesh rends and tangles
the ecosystem shattered
reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.
Butterflies impaled
cyanide-swooning damsels
mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward
coral to potash, corpses to coal.
The pretender to the throne blinks
rubs blurry lenses,
kicks plastic fins
and moves on to the next show
Unseeing and unaware
of the luminous filament in his wake.
Self-appointed divinity,
deus ex machina.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Chocolate Milkshake!
Sweet love-child of milk and chocolate;
Drowsing inside my extra large take-away tumbler,
after a tiring roller coaster ride.
Chocolate milkshake!
Dark and delicious; Derived from the desserted district of dreamland.
Destroying me internally, you devilish seed of cacao tree.
Today, you are mine; And I’ll be the proud receiver of your sweet nectar.
Chocolate Milkshake!
You proudy liquidy miracle of nature.
You self obsessed syrup of supremacy.
You won’t ever get over yourself, will you?
Chocolate Milkshake!
I have loved you enough, you mean juice of Zion.
Next time, I am gonna order a vanilla milkshake.
It might not be as magical as you are;
But again, I can’t hold onto you forever.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Welcome to my home, oh won't you come in?
Allow me to show you around, would you care for a drink?
Tell me your poison, maybe a highball of gin?
I keep it in the kitchen with the coffeepot by the sink,
or maybe you'd prefer a tumbler of crown?
Whiskey is right in the foyer by the doorstop,
there's nothing like a nip right before I bounce.
And if it's wine you crave, it's in the living room atop
the tube television beside the VCR in it's place.
But if you've a tongue for peach schnapps
then make your way to the crawl space.
Whilst your up there I say, would you do me a fave?
Look in the attic for the bourbon, it's beside my baby pictures,
and bring it down for me. I'm sure that I saved
some from the last time I was up there alone with self-stricture.
Oh you don't care for bourbon, then maybe some brandy?
The cognac is somewhere down the basement,
but ignore the rope and the candies.
You're unsettled you say? Then rum's how to spend
drinking the night away with me in the den.
OH! Just send a beer your way?! you should've just said!
A six-pack's in the bathroom, right next to the head.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
meggie
was thumbing
through her
fair trade
“style with a
conscience”
holiday catalog
eyeing
baby organics
indulgent Alpaca’s
green gear for guys
dining as nature intended, and
the best reusable shopping bags, period!
“What do you want for
Christmas Dad?”
“just be a good girl, meggie.”
I answered.
“I’m gonna get you a pair of socks
for Christmas Dad.”
“I don’t need an expensive
pair of socks. megs...
After a couple of washes
one always gets lost
inside the bottomless
tumbler.
Leaving only one to lay
inside a chest of drawers,
in the company of
happy matched pairs,
waiting to warm my
Lamisil wanting toes
One sock
alone and unhappy
its a really sad story.
Radio Arcade: Socks Song
Suffern
11/8/13
jbm
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Poetry is sometimes easy like the wind rushing
to where there is not much wind, caressing in waves,
invisible and pliant like the air, as effortless as
breathing it. Poetry is sometimes impossible,
like turning the tumbler of a lock with your fingertip,
like climbing a mountain barefoot in a blizzard
of screaming, sliding sleet, like a tearing cry
that dies into a whimper in your throat as you
realize the futility of that which you do,
the implacability of the beast you fight.
Sometimes, there are no words that can describe
the machinations and the subtle ticking of a clock
that beats in time to the human soul. Not hearing
the rhythm, you forget the music until your heart
sings again and you dance free like a young ballerina
cutting ballet. No poem is a picture that captures
the fluttering, soaring and sinking in the heart’s chambers.
You choose a word that fits, discard ten of its brothers,
yet feel surprise when your sentences have no answers
for the questions in your chest. You mourn every phrase
you have lost as you fell asleep. Knowing not
what you forgot, you move on to new questions.
You cannot miss what you’ve never felt, but you can yearn for
something you’ve forgotten. What is the difference to you
if you cannot remember the difference? The embryos of
the heart and mind are fragile. Your heart sings of a country
it cannot see anymore now that your back is turned,
you cast fishing nets behind you into the past blindly.
You remember that you have forgotten, and you forget
what bears remembering. You remember a day long past
not as the day that passed but as the memory of its passing,
yet feel surprise when years later and many forgettings hence,
it happened to someone else altogether.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Bill played piano down by the bar,
moldy old show tunes
gray-haired folks listened to,
in youth they'd played over...and over.
He once told me he was terminal,
diagnosed with months left,
and had just one request
of his own to be met
before accepting eternal rest -
peace in the kiss
of a handsome young man
who's powder blue eyes
might make him feel young again.
I thought he would weep,
and heart aching, obliged,
gratified by the smile,
sweet joy it seemed to bring him...
'till Sarah stuffed a dollar
in the tumbler of tips
he kept perched on the edge
of the piano he played -
he'd won their wager
he could get the
straight kid to kiss him.
Sarah cooked in the kitchen
and I always wondered
what sort of mother
named her son -
Sarah Vaughn -
then heard the sparrow sing
on the radio, laughing
because the one I knew
squawked like a crow
and dressed
in wigs and woman's clothes
when work was finally done.
The coincidence seemed
a delicious, karmic prank,
payment for some past-life indiscretion.
Michael studied flamboyance,
raised to high art in sweeps of his hand,
head tossed back, as if to keep pace
with legs was annoyance.
Adolescent innocence ended
when I realized the only other
guy employed there
who was straight like me -
was really a she -
chest wrapped real tight.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:38 PM UTC
...the melting ice shifts and strikes a familiar tone against the glass tumbler, abruptly snapping me back to my actuality
It pains me to call it reality but I'm forced to do so untill I change what I see or my surroundings change me
Both options frighten me...
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 4:05 PM UTC
Sometimes the feeling of loneliness becomes so tangible that the void seems to swallow you from the inside out, emanating from the stomach and reaching out, engulfing the body like a fist closing around a tumbler of whiskey.
This void takes on a weight; light at first, bearable. The tumbler of whiskey with a resting hand around it. Then the fist begins to close so forcefully and the cylindrical glass of the tumbler has no choice but to shatter from it. The glass shards scatter and the whiskey flows and the fist still keeps closing. Always closing. Never resting.
Never resting.
Sometimes when I miss you, when I feel like a tumbler of whiskey enclosed in your fist, I imagine your voice inside my head singing along to your favourite song. I imagine your arms around me, your hand spreading warmth up my thigh, your tongue dancing along my collarbones, up my neck, and tracing the bottom of my earlobe. I am not beautiful but your mouth has me almost convinced that I could be.
Sometimes when your arms are around me, I feel like that tumbler of whiskey encased in a fist. When you kiss me, I feel myself shatter and I feel the whiskey run. But it's not whiskey, it's love. It pours out of me whenever you sing the wrong lyrics to your favourite song.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
i miss the way
coffee used to taste
i used to take the dregs
at the end of the morning
*** and pour them into a
steel tumbler
mix in handfuls of
refined white sugar
to fight the bitter
flavor i had not yet
learned to accept
then it went into a large
glass receptacle with
terminally stained
interior corners
mixed with milk until
pale and creamy
left to sit in the fridge
for a week
drunk from shimmering
crystalline glasses at
any hour of day or night
because consequences
didn't matter to me
my summer coffee tastes
different now
not so watered down
and drunk early
from plastic cups
through straws that crack
just because
it's there, not
because i took
the time to make it
and i miss something a lot deeper
than the way my coffee used to taste
but i cannot for the life of me
remember what it is
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Late at night I am creative
in the form of a fizzing soda bottle
pomegranate deep purple liquid
poured into a glass tumbler three fourths full
standing on a chair moving cereal boxes
that tall glass bottle in the back of the cupboard
splashing it in the tumbler clear and sour
half a teaspoon of sugar and a squeeze of lime
mixing until I see the pink froth on top
drinking it down before I realize what I’m doing
Flash back to a few hours before
“you smell good” is what he said to me
leaning in, whispering it in my ear
Well how do you like me now?
breath full of fruit and something sharper
I can’t say you’d approve of the way my brain buzzes
but I know, secretly, you would understand
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 1:34 AM UTC
Do you know what it’s like
for me
looking at
a half empty
bottle of wine?
It is
Like it is
for a chain smoker
who sees
Cigarette butts on the ground
That are only half smoked.
It’s like when
The alcoholic
Sees the perfect tumbler
with just the right amount of ice
and with the pristine glass craftsmanship
that makes that
Satisfying “clink”ing sound
Whenever it hits the side table or counter.
I SUFFER
When I see such a sight.
And I wouldn’t call it
Addiction
As much as I call it
Jealousy.
For me, it’s torture
Realizing
That people buy the bottle
To get drunk
Or to have fun
Rather than
To forget
Like I do.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Tumbler in hand,
Without a stem,
Wine slowly warmed in your palm
The carboxyl-laden liquid gold
Daily medicine,
You prescribe yourself
And send your loving wife to pick up
From a clanking pharmacy
Returns
In lilac paper
A present you unwrap
For yourself.
A beauty,
More so than her
Or the daughter you both raised
You cradled your glass instead of her,
Sick, balding, bloated.
In the bathroom
Crying against the locked door
As you shout
To control, stop now
Her unregulated rate of mitosis
That was done in spite against you.
It’s her fault
That you cant fix it.
Unlike a mitral,
You cannot sow, stitch, or glue her in place,
She won’t stay where you put her,
But like this valve -
A pig.
She remembers nights you don’t,
Her memories your hangover
That you’ve grown resistant to
Like a bacteria.
The MRSA of our family,
Washing our hands of you,
Sterilised with alcohol.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
pushed clouds out,
pursed lips like
whistling in a shell,
reverbs into tumbler
held down
and spirals back.
Then, as it rises,
Advocaat crackles
thunder-yellow,
tickling the insides
into familiar
house-warm feeling.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
I reflect upon our shared moments
much the way
an alcoholic
stares into an empty tumbler
realizing
he can't afford a refill...
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
I burnt the tip of my cigarette into my
Tumbler to **** two habits with one stone.
Though the **** coughed its last sigh and polluted a decently-priced
Rye, I don't trust that the addiction died.
Tipped my finger to the 'tender to fill a new glass,
Struck the flint to the tinder, a tobacco mask.
They poison slow, but the effects are fast.
You, like these habits, are in the past,
Waiting for me at the bottom of a flask, swearing always
"It'll be the last."
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
A little twist a squirt of oil
A flick of the wrist the tumbler rolls
A petty thing to change the lock
Shows you really are a ****
I Imagine the look upon your face
As the smug smile is worn away
Yeah she's been and got her stuff
Your an amateur her friends are not
You came close but no cigar
So I've left you one as a souvenir
So big boy who hits on girls
Your MMA mates don't know that yet
I'd hide from them when it hits the press
Before they make your face a mess
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
****** Mary sunset
Soft tequila sigh
Ivory teardrop tumbler
Disregarded sky
Street breeze through the window
Kettle on the stove
Chopin in the parlor
Empty pack of cloves
Resonance of redwood
Essence of the earth
Shrine to Mother Mary
Sacred ****** birth
Portraits on the table
Gazing toward the floor
Cobwebs in the dresser
Tucked behind closed doors
Violins descending
From the upper room
Dissonance impending
Lost in worry’s womb
****** Mary sunrise
Flower pillow sigh
Alka Seltzer tumbler
Halfhearted goodbye
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
This whimsical mask alight in my arms
Such a light, cheery laugh
Surely I mean no harm
Just a little, slight push and it's up on my face
Now I tumble and flip
To the clouds I give chase
For I am the tumbler, the jester, the clown
I make people smile
I chase away their frowns
With a flip of my hat and a twist of my tongue
I make all the oldest
Of tales seem young
I am the gleeman, the poet, the bard
I see your future
In the face of my card
So come watch me now, as I put on a show
I'll make you laugh
As this happy crowd grows
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
terrestrial siren call out
to me with your irresistible
song, ground me on the Earth
in the clouds, alone, I will go mad
alone without your melodies
to lure me back to a port
where I can furl my sails
and rest in your grounding solace
a song unlike the siren songs
Odysseus heard strapped to the mast
to resist temptation—he had only Penelope
while I have only you
you pull my ship back on course
away from the tangents I am prone
I want nothing more
than to bring
you aboard my ship
I know your telos
is rooted amidst the Earth
to heal and flourish
the ailing land
my telos to sail the sky
charting the heavens in search
of a key to turn the tumbler
of the lock to the universe
it tears my heart to be away
from your terrestrial song…
know: you will always be the port
where I return—for no reason other
than to hear your sweet song
one day, I will
roll my sails
un-step my mast
let the shrouds
hang loose
anchor my ship
permanently out
in the waters
of the celestial bodies
walk upon the Earth amongst trees, plants, and rock
rooting myself alongside you—ears open, listening,
solace in your song, in the port we built together
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
My Mother placed a glass of water
by my bed every night
before I went to sleep.
I was forbidden
to drink it
“It serves another purpose.” she would say.
This happened every day until, once,
the glass sat, half evaporated, with bubbles
clung to its ribs, and my mother panicked.
She explained the magick
as best she could to a child,
but forgot that children know the art well.
She told an Aesopian story
of hurt and malice as weapons.
How they could be given life.
The water, she said, was a bridge.
One that could not be crossed
by the ghosts that were drawn to me in my sleep.
She warned me not to travel when I slept.
To stay away from those unfamiliar places in my dreams,
she said that they would wait for me in those nooks.
The morning she found the tumbler,
half full, me sweating, beads of glass,
she moved my bed,
told me that it might be a shade,
that the room was thick with rancor
and someone might playing with conjury.
She clipped a tuft of hair from my head
burned it, stinking between her fingers
and dropped it into what was left of the water.
“Magick is old,” she’d say,
“young souls appeal most
To strong spells and old ghosts.”
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
#Stephan W
*The key turns,
and each tumbler falls into its
pre-honed slot
There is an infinite magic
in her world of words--
her heart finds them
through special agreement,
as the door opens wide; no
resistance at the hinge,
and it is at that very moment that she
gives
everything that she has.
Her relationship with eternity-- it
calls me to her.
I want to be near her--
be her friend..
And with both hands, brazenly
touch the hem of her garment--
slide it off of her;
share.. in the eternal.*
#
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 7:50 PM UTC
I can feel the music swirling inside,
Splashing up against the glass,
splitting apart,
Explosions in miniature
knocking around inside my head.
If I turn over the tumbler,
will the notes spill out,
wash the floor,
cool my heels as a liquid blessing?
an offering to the first god who’ll take it—
I’m not picky anymore.
Or will it stay, suspended
in this rarefied atmosphere,
an elixir of life, almost oxygen,
not quite enough to breathe?
If I get close enough,
the notes will knit themselves into my bones
pour through this frail skin
and remake me into a creature fluid and beautiful.
I can hear my mother’s voice,
“Turn off the music,” she says,
“I can’t think through all the noise.”
But I also hear a promise—
Just give me this,
my heaven, drowned in light.
Just let me get close enough,
let me break the glass against your floor,
And I will take the blood and the glass,
I will weave you a castle,
And this one, finally, this one, will be right.
And we could disappear inside.
Yes, make me into a storm or a song or a broken glass,
turn me into a handgun or a time machine or
those last few stitches in the kind of wound that wouldn't heal.
And I will forget, I will be what I promised,
when we were young, and still remembered the old prayers.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
An ode to my long and satisfying relationship with the product of Portugal’s Douro Valley.
Golden amber, smokey smooth
Rich with pleasured bite
Spreading warmth to ample girth
The brandy’s fine tonight.
Dustless, standing on my shelf
Bathing in half light,
Golden highlights shadow deep
Paints Douro Father's right.
Born amidst the hills of schist
On vines that root in rock
In patterns neat and quite arcane
Of ancient grappa stock.
Old men sit by river barge,
Mustachioed and wise,
To argue politics and sip
God’s amber nectar prize.
Tepid sun is setting low
To throw long shadows tight,
To bathe the vines of soft green tones
In liquid amber light.
Golden spirit, smokey smooth
Glows with silken light
Satisfaction’s spreading warmth
Paints Douro Father’s right.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
Sipping a tumbler of amber warmth in New Zealand’s Autumn sunset.
26 March 2012
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
Thought of you spills
like the sea caught in a steel tumbler
Each time strangers speak your name
And the cigarette smoke that is seeping
a chosen death through my lungs
Cannot quench you.
This is sweet pain:
sweet and desiccating, all plum stone, apricot seed
Patterns in the dark are drawn and
the world turns like roasting corn upon the coals of magical machines
and everyone is being pulled, heartstrings looped and
knotted together in golden electric lines
Such states crave ending in love and light. Something wholesome, mild and true.
Yet one thought stays splinter-wise:
I cannot reach you...
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC