"tumblers" poems
There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...
The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,
an ode to humility.
Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.
Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways
in spite.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
there’s a network of vigilance
around the guarded causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
and smoking rails
leave nothing
but black hooded fate
gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole
bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent steel bars
with pockets pinched
and tumblers dangling
the stone walls soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good painted warrior
loosen a finely tuned grip
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
The fading state lines spells memories,
as the rain comes down,
a clutch of fallen gratitude
may possibly release the pain.
Spent embraces dissolve
those hard shouldered highways.
Let your tumblers of Tennessee cry resolution,
as the doe eyed Gypsy Inn
dims low,
receding as this one night stand.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
If I could be a fly on Einstein’s wall
I’d buzz about from chair to curtain
watch him check out plans and gadgets
and scratch remarks on his papers.
When the clock edged to noon
his stomach would growl,
he’d fold up the prints and say,
“It’s a relatively short walk to the café.”
With Albert out I’d take the run of the place -
practicing banks and dips and vertical lifts.
I’d munch on scraps of Brie and fowl
left fused to the edge of his table.
When the tumblers turned
I’d buzz back to my wall, eager to witness
whatever this sage would chance to say.
He’d go to his desk to file reports
and stack them neatly into a tray.
Without warning he’d rise from his chair
scattering papers across the floor.
“MASS AND ENERGY ARE ONE, ” he’d shout, -
“CRUSHED TOGETHER BY TIME! ”
I’d buzz and swoop and fly circles and loops
and taxi in on his collar.
I’d beat my wings to cool his brain.
But wait…Whose voice do I hear?
Oh, it’s you gentle reader.
“Stop, hold it right there, ****** pest!
It couldn’t have happened that way!
Have you no shame or respect for God’s truth? ”
But I’d stare you down with my compound eye
and scornfully twitch my wings.
Consider this, troubled sir,
you’re the one scolding a talking fly.
July, 2006
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
What you don't see
is the way I wait,
watching her braid
worries in her hair
speckling small daisies,
my eyes like tumblers
gulping her in swigs
as she perches glasses
on the arch of her nose,
and then we'll take
a photo
to remark on how
we were back then
and now.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
I watched the sky turn
It's marvelous, too-perfect
Gleaming tumblers in a cosmic
Dance of light and silence
And the hula-hoop girl
Spun her hoop against the massive
Sky turning those
Dots into positioned perfection
To which she dashed them to the
Earth in a frenzied
Calm which met the moon
By the singing tree tops
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
This Morning
I woke this morning to a beautiful dawn, the dew wet grass shining in the already bright sun
The Lady has blessed me once more
My tumblers run and dart, spin and frolic my private acrobats
Soft sweet calls and ankle swarms and my large cattle dog gently but with insistence herding me into the kitchen and my duties,
My Eastern altar is glowing with the suns rising
and wrapped 'round with the grasses and flowers of summer
Incense rises and the candle flickers as I ask for Her protection for these... my wandering one's today
The kettle's boiled and the day's tea is made and blessed and seven dishes filled and emptied.
The sun fully risen now and the house stirs family sounds as heavy steps wander above and radio plays softly
Round me now still piles of soft satin slick fur breathing soft and deep
noses all counted and accounted for
bellies rubbed and ears all tickled
7 foreheads softly touched and charmed
and all are safe and sound this day in our Lady's care.
I wander the garden now caressing those blooms that require some extra essence,
All that's needed is water and sun and love
through each touch comes life and will and care and thus the wheel turns and the garden thrives
Lilac, Lily and Rose and Ivy abounds and the garden thrives
I walk now from the front to the back door carefully sweeping
my chants softly sung
and the smudge bundle of sage and roses lit and smoking
salt scattered and swept and once more my small realm is safe
My Lady guard this house and all who dwell and those who would stay
I trust my most valued Companions are in your keeping
My Family My life are in your keeping.
I celebrate my life withing your Circle and my Joy within your keeping
All of this and things unspoken Joy and Light and Love
My Lady, Bless me.
Solita -2007
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
Either way,
knuckles knock these tumblers
free every single day
from positions un-turned
unlocking blue behind the grey,
precisely placed ******* monotony
I'm left walking rings,
loops,
circles,
and things
around the idea
of being
Optimistic.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Someday Girl
Everyday I miss what I never had, that kiss, that feeling of bliss, leaving my head swimming in neverland...
Soft lips speaking the depths of aqua blue eyes… a brilliant smile that could stop traffic for miles.. I’m talking about a woman that’s just wild.. with a personality that could be bottled and sold in vials to melt the hardest hearts into molten piles…
My someday girl…
Walkin in the room with brilliant blond hair flowing.. exuding confidence and not afraid to show it.. pure beauty for sure you know it, when she can’t even be captured by the words of a poet.. I can’t describe my feelings inside I just know it.. someday I’ll be on a roll, meet her, and slow it…
Til then I’m patiently waiting... gasping to keep my lungs inflating… raspin verses til my tongues achin.. but I get frustrated.. cause I even visited churches and the nuns are taken..
Some days I think of giving up hope.. settling for something just to stay afloat.. but I keep waitin it out grasping at a tiny little frayed rope that’ll lead me back to the realization of my greatest hope..
My someday girl…
I hope to someday embrace her slowly… sliding my hand across silky soft skin to hold her closely… the sweet smell of her hair controls me and my heart dances to her pulse as she holds me..
I could spend eternity locked in that embrace.. if I could just find it I’d gladly step into my place.. but I guess life would be too easy if that was the case.. so everyday I tighten my shoes and keep runnin the race… stumbling through dates.. tryin to put numbers with a face… but none of em got the key to put my tumblers in place… so again I wait and I wait…
For my someday girl…
It doesn’t seem fair though, cause along the way I’ve met girls that I’ve longed to date… only to find out that they’re engaged or they’ve found a mate.. it makes me wanna shake my fist at fate.. give up, and roll a spliff to sedate and smoke it down to that last crispy trace.. but through it all I still hold that glimmer of faith.. that my someday girl will come and take her place… so I wait…
and I wait....
For my someday girl…
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 2:09 AM UTC
Dear girl who dreams of my manic pixie nightmare
You are the one I never expected to meet
I am the one you have met a million times before
You're the girl obsessed with film craving invasion on television screens, propagandist **** muse, docs and a **** cut
I'm the girl obsessed with ******** and using boundaries as skipping ropes or thread to turn my hair to tapestry
You're Bowie
I'm Hendrix
You like visuals, shapes and sound and pretty cinematography and things I can't understand, your mind is a transcript in calligraphy I can't decipher,
I like books that come in three and getting to the end and not knowing how to live anymore
You're brimming full of hope and dreams and set lighting
I'm disappointment and drowning shame in the bottom of tumblers, spilling the leftovers into quotable dialogue
You're too good for my obscenity to taint, you can't find what you're looking for in me
I'll be your undoing spiralling constantly in a figure 8
You are the manic pixie dream girl we've all been searching for
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Unrepentant with a hole in her soul
The brass faced liar has steely control
Nothing fazez her. no fib was too big or small. Man this girl was a smooth criminal and a really close acquaintance
She would give a polygraph the shakes
and it's our little secret. umm, Mom and dad know.
family secret.
I reversed engineered the brass faced liar
and all the tumblers clicked.
The truth to her is like Kryptonite to Superman.
I dropped a small stone down her throat one day and counted to ten
before it hit bottom with a far away clunk..
Faceof brass ,heart of stone.animal rescuer
Liar to the bone. Manipulates children poor self esteem
Brass faced liar isn't what she seems.
Out. To impress now.finally starting to dress now
Drawing flys like rotten meat.
Wicked comes in all shapes and sizes
Turn back the covers,know what your surprize is ?.
A zombie in a guilded mask.
Long dead and putrid..a walking talking husk.
Lies pour out of her mouth like green blowflies
And crawl back in under her disguise.
To fester.
Brass face jester
R.I.P.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
Comfy seats, yellow walls, hot coffee and Chai tea.
Tall tumblers filled with ice, and faces warm, quiet and friendly.
A rugged sign hangs just outside, to welcome those who are hungry.
If golden treasure lies inside, this Naked Egg is such a treat.
Now's not the time to question taste, you could pick at random for goodness sake.
There isn't an item on the menu the wouldn't make most clean their plate.
Sidewinder fries await inside, a torte, a Florentine, a bean.
The whole farm perhaps for your appetite, or a western omelet smoked with cheese.
New deli items await your taste, just choose your meat after a certain time.
And if your cup is ever in need, they'll refill your teapot every time.
Don't be a hot mess, just order one, and you'll be happy that you've come.
To be at the Naked Egg you see, is to see how flavorful life can be.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Can you tell when the magic is about to happen.
When the hook is taking hold.
Do you get a funny feeling when it comes together
When the reason finds a rhyme
The feeling fits the word.
The senses click when the tumblers fall in line.
The phrases hover then flutter.
A drifting mist takes flight. It soars defiantly.
A fleeting thought turns slowly round and round.
A drop of rain falls slowly then swiftly then ripples on shimmering pond.
Ripple, ripple wider still running free to bank.
The lapping sound I hear in deep. Indeed the simple echo.
My mind asks how this came to be. In truth it even puzzles me .
Call it what you will my friends. I call it poetry.
I now careess my blue guitar. It takes me on the journey
The instrument it masters me as I have learned the rote.
A dewdrop trembles on the E string then echoes and cries softly. Fretted gently it
whines and squeals in sad ecstasy. The blues in my hand.
The motion in my mind.
The ripple of the pond.
The union. Nubile and free.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
1.5k
The Great Alone
The greatest fear is to lose the one dearest to oneself the shadows even darken soulless darkness
The day goes without sunlight even at noon day where does the brave contend while loss bends comfort
No hiding place exist you understand the lifeless void love taken only obstruction lives in all starkness
All is gone the tumblers of the safe are dissolved you can’t lock anything in safety nothing can oppose
No desert ever formed looks and feels like this landscape baked to the point nothing recognizable
Shade is filled with inner burning always turning thoughts are only heavy weights you must bare
Where is the water once it held you with buoyancy now seek as you do none is found at all sizable
Burnished sand this wayfarer knows its captivity well it is only like a tightening rope around the heart
The still frightens because down its corridors the laughter of yesterday still quietly forcefully echo
Avoid natural reflections those images the most painful hurts dwell you feel their presence can’t touch
Embodiment longing that holds the greatest promise now a cross a twist on the crops of the god Peko
What mocking to speak of harvest when there is only devastation your heart where not one plant grows
He once walked where you walk his experiences reflect these very facts they are the human equivalent
You have lost that which can’t be replaced you know pain and sorrow he lost most of those he created
Then by love he came to rescue that which was lost he carried your pain by their action he is irrelevant
In the soon clearing mist all eyes will dry dead hearts will be made a live with joy and what a gathering
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
In the dream we were in a hotel in New York. We were walking in tandem towards a really tall glass elevator. We got in and went up to the hotel room; we were both carrying powder blue suit cases and the same expression. He unlocked the door, outside the room the carpet was plush and forest green. Keys jangle, tumblers fall, cut to us in the bathroom. Him on the toilet, dressed in tuxedo pants and a Hawaiian shirt, head in his hands looking tired. Me in the tub, the water is transparent purple and the floors are marble. I say something: inaudible. He slips out the tiny white box and shakes one, two, three times - always. A thin cigarette shimmies out of cardboard, into his hand, into mine and finally he lights it. Smoke curls up like a cliche and we do that until it's gone. We both know it's over, but the audience... The audience knows he's found the girl he wanted. She's got strawberry hair and only listens to Bright eyes. Who is she? Stage left, pan to elevator door sliding open and he's leaving. He's got his powder blue and baby pink beside him and I'm still in the tub with the ashes.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Caged hands
Fumble,
Eye teeth, nick
*******
Toes, tumblers,
Unlocking
Combinations of two,
Nose to ear,
Fingers printing
Smear,
Tongues, tasting
Freedom,
Jailed
In clothing's
Night.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
You ignite the papaya scent
of Zanzibar romances
spiced woods behind ears
seducing the body's non-senses
like kisses enticed from hints
formed in a humid land
kneading your cat pad toes
into my kicked off sandals
soft sinking
warm as sand spreading
on golden embers
smoking like a slow glowing dhow
sailing wine tumblers
spilling Matemwe beach rays
of crystal rain in sunshine
tinkling against my skin
like the random meditation
in wind chimes
tuned by the slight twitch
of Mnemba Atoll frangipani
to unwind my fire
into an isle of leaves
singing sunny
somewhere mysterious
through winding alleyways
we kissed on shady curves
sprung open
on to Stone Town seas
your weather
beaten hair
waving in Forodhani Gardens
showered into labyrinthine storms
travelled blue-black horizons
infused with times
of thunder roaming
lost in alluring plans
mindful I look back to check
your coral stone directions
we swept into an unclipped tent
of Salamah **** Saïd's
eating hot shwarma
like I was the Sultan and you princess
your attractions slipping a cargo off
of precious unguent wet essentials
drying to flow a silken scarf
around Darajani Market thrills
floating in a dark continent
on each kiss to my needy neck
leaning in the white wake
of Zani-bar dreams
which seek
to push the boat out
on your shoulder
once you're moored
on to my arms
longing for you
swaying now
under sweating hot
Gizenga road palms
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Do they understand
I am standing in the room
trying to make sense of
what I do not want to see.
I am witness to every motion,
every word branded into
my memory,
all of it a blur.
Like a movie,
a scene rehearsed
beyond perfection,
so real that their
only audience trembles
with confusion and fear.
Do I understand
the reasons, big
and small,
behind the raised voices,
sudden, spastic movements,
reddened faces,
hands flying erradically,
spit sailing from lips to air.
Questions met with inadequate and
nonsensical responses.
Accusations like tumblers,
dangerously thrown in the air.
Do you understand
why they continue
when there is no winner,
only losers filled
with hurt.
Nothing new happens
but new sparks alight,
each more inconsequential
than the last.
There is no point,
no moving on.
The cycle continues.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
i saw us
4 cars and a lake house, making friends all over this town, nothing holding us back
3 dogs and a sunset, laughing until there’s no air left, netflix binges on our couch
2 matching starbs tumblers, getting mexican food when our stomachs rumble, stargazing pretty far our
1 walk down the aisle, listening to morgan all the while, smiles on the way out
but instead it’s time to let you go
but i hope you know i’ll always love you so
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 11:33 PM UTC
Sol o Sol!
Come be our guest,
Come & imagine a lunch with us.
Sky o Sky!
Most clement you are,
You are invited to lunch along us.
The stove is just so cold,
The stomach is hot as oven,
Warm bread is our daydream.
May some day come our way,
Our poor daydreams be realized,
Drinking the water in steel tumblers.
Delicious potato-tomato greens,
Sour tamarind sauce will be there,
Such a day has always been on the list.
We toast to our mini picnic,
Gulp chilled water brought along,
Yes so would be our hot celebration.
Let us sit under a tree's shade,
Enjoying our picnic time the best,
Melting some butter on warm bread.
Just for the sake of our joy,
May birds be our music system,
Today we shall feed them as well.
Sol o Sol!
Listen to our invitation,
Come & imagine a lunch with us.
Sky o Sky!
Accept all our offerings,
You are invited to lunch along us.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:01 AM 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
Caged hands
Fumble,
Eye teeth, nick
*******
Toes, tumblers,
Unlocking
Combinations of two,
Nose to ear,
Fingers printing
Smear,
Tongues, tasting
Freedom,
Jailed
In clothing's
Night.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
that hemlock i cracked in two days
was one of your best
deceptions.
the tumblers finessed the probe. your mode of disconnect
was exquisite pathos. and lesions.
we drank from dead wells to alleviate the tedium of sober springs.
we rigged the landscape
to provide clockwork wolves to whet their fangs to the marrow
of our Diaspora devoid of Momentum.
that devious fracture in your mind has surrendered to my advances.
i glean your glamour-tross.
cellos are coursing through my veins
as your ***** grinds my prime mate into scrap
and daguerreotype
Pompeii.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC