"banister" poems
Solvent and solution
Kept assuaged for so long
Treading in the selfishness of my subconscious state
Of barely traceable memories, spurred on by the gravity of time spent
At the briefest hint at past involvement
Each leaf falls, eventually.
Every pristine little well formed tended to.
Each nurtured, cared for, parcel or idea.
I can watch them for hours
Watching them fall, one by one, for hours.
When days start to bleed together, out of the corner of my eye,
I can always see them, marking progression.
Collecting in drifts, then, taken by the wind, then
The rot sets in.
I used to watch this.
I used to find time.
The roof cast me in its shadow, even standing along the banister that runs along the length
Even as the final rays of sun start to vanish one at a time
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
I keep finding peaches
Peaches
I don't think it's possible to not smile when you say the word
they turn my cheeks the same color as their skin
it makes me grin and laugh to see them sunbathing on the banister
lining the window sills like shining trophies
on my porch like children climbing to Set upon the tallest object They can find
beaming as children do
Maybe it's cuz I grew up in the south
Knowing you have to set them out And wait for them to be soft to
the touch
let them ripen in the Sun so you can then pick your fruit that up
until now has been forbidden
it's like a little fuzzy ball of gold Sunshine warming your face and
your mouth
I love the word peaches
maybe it's the memory,
the name,
Peaches
“chin up, peaches”
it carrie's such an innocence such a light-hearted, free-spirited
happiness.
something warm and welcoming and something I could only find at home
maybe it's the breakfast
peaches and cream
three ingredients
so happy, so creamy, so sweet, smooth, summary, comforting
it's what my grandma would give me
so sugary, yet so filling
it reminds me of her
it tastes how she act
it is her hyperbole
peaches and cream is a grandmother
it's as sweet as her voice
as comforting as her touch
as filling as her hug
and as smooth as her skin.
maybe it's all three
either way
this time of Peach field windowsills will come again next year
and the year after that
and the year after that
until I am the grandmother they represent
and every year, I will smile.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
I pull into my driveway and
my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a
wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with
his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small
and he's owned since 2005.
nearly every part of him is
large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes
from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from
his perpetually messy house
(his door is wide open, all the
cold air is escaping, it smells like
cigarettes and being ******* over it).
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before,
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid god forsaken piece of **** apartment
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all
standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
*"Once upon a time there was"
"no"
"No"
"NO"
"Many moons ago"
"There was a dreamer"
Who wished with all her heart,
To find the gold at the rainbows end,
She would look for clouds
Bursting
Up
High,
Her mother smiled.
"Are you still searching for that rainbows end"
"Pamela your dreams are the clouds"
*"Mummy a *** of gold I will find"*
"For if you latch on to one"
"You will find yourself upon the other side""
Then one morning awoke to find a rainbow
Moving over her lawn,
Blouse,
Trousers,
Shoes
On too, she had packed a case
Encase this time did come true,
She slid down the banister
"Whoooooosh"
Through the front door,
Just as it was fading
Hands did grab hold,
She was surrounded by colours
Red,
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
All were pure and bright, then with a
"Thump"
On her bottom she did land, surrounded
By beauty, plants the colours of the rainbow
"Blue leaves"
"Grass was orange"
Sky was all shades of the rainbow too,
A *** seen, gold did gleam,
Mouth wide open,
A violent fly flew in then out,
"Gross"
And she then quickly shut her mouth,
She was over the moon, the rainbow too,
She picked it up,
Lighter than she thought??
She picked one up
Put it too her mouth,
And bit,
It was squiggly in her mouth
"Gross"
Twice in two minutes,
She was
Sullen,
Grumpy,
Tears
Did cascade from little eyes,
They came out
Colours of the rainbow
Which lightened her mood,
She wiped her tears looked once, twice
Then hands upon the rainbow,
And whoosh, she landed with a
"Thump"
On next doors cow,
"MMmmmoooooo"
Went the cow,
"AAaahhhhhhh"
Went Pamela,
She ran with a
Scare
And
Fright,
As in the distance still hearing the angry
"MMMmmoooooooooooo"
She ran to her house, opened the door,
"MUM"
"MUM"
"MUM"
With a fright her mum ran out,
"Pamela"
"My baby are you all right"
"I found the rainbow"
**"I found the ***
"I found a land of colour,"
"But the treasure wasn't right"
All said with in one breathe,
Now breath my angel,
As mother did take a coin
Opened it carefully and with the tip
Of here finger tasted it,
"MMmmmm"
So creamy, so light,
As she took her in the kitchen,
And the toaster minutes later
POPPED out,
Spreading it evenly, and eaten was
The toast crust and all,
"Mummy may I try one"
Pamela said
"Magic words my honey bear"
"Please may I try one"
And with that the toast again
POPPED out,
"MMmmmmmmm"
"My gosh mummy this tastes divine"
"You found a golden treasure that's for sure"
As they had toast each morning,
Opening a coin spreading it evenly,
"It was a taste to behold"
The treasure at the end of the rainbow,
Wasn't money, but I was something better
A taste that put a smile on faces
Every morning at breakfast time.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
It's out with the old
And in with the new.
Spring cleaning
Rids my closet of
Bony skeletons
And chests of horrors.
All those times,
All those memories
That were swept
Under the rug,
Shake them out,
Beat the dust,
The feelings until
Last October's filth
Becomes clean again.
Repaint this room.
Refurbish that sofa.
Redo the tile.
Run your hand
Down the banister.
Feel the cinder's from
Last fall's fire,
The remnants, the remains.
Make my building
Like new again,
Untouched, as if
For the first time,
For the first buyer.
May 11, 2011
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
Percepts of enlightenment & civilization to encounter
The grim aftermath of tales unspoken from the galaxies afar
Betokening Indian tales of deeper truths than ever,
For the Great Spirit still swirls in gestures previously milder,
At a snail's pace and surely winning the pursuit among souls or
Is example better than pre-conceived precept?
or
“Is that a dog in the manger?”
Now cherishing the viper?
The human dilemma between liberty & authority?
“Has mythology now become psychology?”
A dingy white color in disguise of tranquility
To suit the blemished features of the 21st century
With fair women & brave men turning fables into verse,
Yet Socrates’ doctrine about death bespeaks a wafture so callous!
The new-age “iron claw” screams nastiness in time and space.
The pretences of mankind like the puritan;
Mars trapped in the net of Vulcan,
Jupiter is serene and above the conflict to win,
While Venus tries to fight upon the plains of troy
That the Greek gods of serenity may win at Tuscany.
“When do these sultry groans of mortal remorse cease?”
To calm the sordid uproar that Love may peruse
Through the scattered white aromatic rose petals
In search of the scintillating path back to the highland stables
Were snowflakes are an irresistible lure for the Arctic snowbirds!
Nature herself is proud of her designs
Yet!
There is nothing grating in mortal cosmoses but direct villainy.
Sinister fate climbs the lonesome banister faster
Before the “fanged dawn” descends nearer,
As stronger minds virtually become weaker;
These “shameless actors” are melted into “thin air”
“Must they cheat themselves with that same foolish vice of honesty?”
Mischievousnesses feed!
Like beasts till they be fat, and then they bleed
As they are led to bend the curve of “No return”
Since it is only rational that after the darkest of nights
There is a brighter day to reveal the true knights
Of the once gloomy age of Democritus.
Tis plain, from hence, that our vows
Request hurtful intense things,
or useless at the best.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:16 AM UTC
First, garlic.
Dig your nails into its flaking paper,
pink and beige like magnolia petals parched
in the gutter.
Peel back the skin and crush
the weighted bud
with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife.
It has been waiting for this.
The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board,
looks up at you like an old friend.
It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there
it will not be washed away, instead
it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring
letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister,
every light switch in the house.
The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan,
your grandmother's; it was never non-stick.
The stuck parts were always the best bit,
and so it goes,
the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots,
engineered over forty years.
Some were accidents. All were happy.
Yours were ambition-led experiments.
The thumbs in the brown recipe book
were never your thumbs,
the dried-out sedimentary edges
were never your mishaps
but still it is a bible of sorts,
providing answers but never asking questions.
Later after dinner when everything is cleared away
and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all
bring your fingertips to your nose
and inhale
the remaining relic of your meal,
a letter to yourself,
the end notes enduring but faint
now, lastly
lastly
garlic.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Welcome inside!
My own purgatory.
My twisted mind.
My melted story.
Down every hallway,
open a different door.
Tempted by temptation,
fearing nature's *****
Mirrors on the ceiling,
reflecting a dark stare.
Blood drips from the corners,
makes you want to dare.
Tiptoe to the staircase,
spirals out of pitch.
Death grip on the banister,
devil makes me trip.
Sinister and evil,
shadows follow me.
No more mental hauntings,
wake me from this dream.
Trapped by my surroundings,
biting every bit,
Seeing everything red,
by every blowing hit.
No perfect little world,
or perfect little bell.
Won't you trade me places?
Within my own living hell
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
The enclosed haven of the stairway bounced around the sound of laughter; laughter at the shared realisation that they had averted Hemingway's crisis of the unused baby shoes. They each held one and climbed while their faces shook free of the wrinkles from the smiles. They would never admit it to each other -- not even from the ***** of the darkest depths that they would sometimes sink to in unison -- but the true horror was not the anticipation of a non-existent child. No, it was that the flower grew so fast that they could not grasp it, and all they held was a banister in one hand and the past in the other, and they did not know who they would be nurturing tomorrow.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
There he waits,
the Nice Guy,
looking academic
and out of reach
in his tweed.
There's something
feminine in the way
he crosses his legs,
draping right over left in the fainting chair.
There you are, across from
him, at this party your
roommate dragged you to.
And you ask how he is.
He ushers you to his chair.
Sit down, sit down. I insist.
You know, he says. Most people
would tell you they're good or just fine.
The Nice Guy reassures you he is
not most people. He's a Nice Guy;
he's down with feminism, waves
One through Three.
He has a dog named Atticus.
They frequent open-air bars
in the summer.
He's a Nice Guy, an old soul,
someone who should have been
a young man in the 60s.
God, he has so many female friends
he tells you, leaning on the banister,
sipping on Glenfiddich.
You wonder how he is. This was your question.
He has so many female friends. Notice
how I'm stressing the word friends, he says.
I do, you say.
He's a Nice Guy and all these female friends
they're all the same. They love the bad boys,
the rich snobs, the ******* jocks.
I don't, you say.
Oh, sure you do, he Nice Guy-splains to you.
And there's a golden light coming from the chandelier
behind him, and he looks so holy and pure as he tells
you how one day Tara, Sam, Whitney, and Amber
will wake the **** up and realize just what they're missing.
But by then, this Nice Guy will have rambled on. He'll become
someone's second husband. A Good Woman will see how precious, how rare this Nice Guy truly is.
Okay, you say.
Prove me wrong, the Nice Guy says. He leans in closer.
You can smell the scotch. Prove me wrong.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
One of these days, the glimmer in your eye that knocks me out will actually break me,
And then my words and reservoir of tears will shatter into shards of truth
That stick into and stain your hands when you apologetically try to sweep them up.
It’s not a ******* secret that I live for the hours that I can pretend that maybe,
One of these nights, I’ll be with you in more than just my mind and yours
As you grip the banister to ascend to silken sheets and wine-fed dreams.
I bite my tongue so words don’t leak, and lick my lips so as to keep them here,
Rather than the curving place behind your ear… the stalwart jaw… the capable lips that draw me near…
The things I’d do were waters clear…
The answer’s written in an inky, contractual ultimatum that squashes the fruit of imagination.
And yet, a fierce, poisonous force rises from the depths of a desirous ***** within,
And whispers to me that with contracts, there are ways to blot, smear, and tear. It scares me.
I lock it in a closet of infectious notions that I’ll slowly dematerialize with clean blood,
But rivers of the stuff won’t run clear when they’re magnetized so close to the sin
That doesn’t feel like sin, and that beckons as a beacon of bright and beautiful things.
It’s a difficult conclusion to arrive at: I must be the bad guy.
I am the mind’s mistress, the secret-almost-lover, the temptation, the promise, the snake…
Yet also the forgotten, the disappointed, the frustrated, the one who MUST keep control, the Saint.
We both know that I’ll keep floating back; my curiosity, passion, fascination, and need to learn and share
Will always countervail the weight of my exasperation and guilt-laden vexation,
Until one of these days when the glimmer in your eye that knocks me out actually breaks me.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
i honestly never understood how they can say you cannot breathe without someone.Oh you can breathe but the point will be that the breathing will be so painful you may start to wish you lost that ability.Because it will feel like a thousand universes are sitting on your chest yet your eyes are shut too tight to see their beauty,and you are okay with that.And maybe that is where the danger really begins,when you are content with seeing gray,blacks and white and you have put a ban on the colour spectrum threating to rip reds and blow up yellows.Then mountains begin to make homes in your head and their peaks begin to snow on your heart that had already forgotten what a warm ribcage felt like.The stars at that moment that had forged within your eyes over the months start to die out all at once and you are left standing alone in the dark once more,clutching unto the air as though it is a banister that can save you as your knees give in.Finally,finally every part of you gives and you are still awake as the weeds begin to grow on each part of you that their touch always brought to life.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
I have lost all control.
Having kids was not my best idea.
I am at my wits end.
Why does my bathroom look like it snowed?
Stop climbing on that coffee table Leah!
I have lost all control…
Do not play in the road!
Who puts pimento spread on a tortilla?
I am at my wits end!
These socks should not be a la mode…
Im selling you kids to South Korea.
I have lost ALL control.
Why is my banister starting to corrode?
I’m going to need stock in IKEA…
I am at my wits end…
My sanity is leaving by the busload.
Who knew crayons cause diarrhea?
I have lost all control!
I AM AT MY WITS END!!!
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
Her gaze flitters as she looks about the room.
All seems the same as it once was, she thinks.
Gliding across the shredded carpet,
Her attention is drawn to the winding stairwell.
Memories ravage her mind…
She is seven years old, sliding down
The smooth, freshly polished banister-
She had won the race.
Her little mind is ever so exultant.
Climbing the stairs again,
She never wants the game to end.
She blinks, taken aback by the strength of the flashback.
She knows it could have been far worse.
A heavy sigh escapes her nostrils.
She turns to leave the beaten, empty home,
But caught an unbearable urge to run up the stairs-
To the attic, to burry herself,
In the moth eaten remains of her past.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
Caffeinated air drowns out care for
surrounding discussion
where time is a diamond ring
on this restless city
Wind whips my hair like a weapon
around a weary mind,
blind for a moment before a banister
catches keys and returns hearts in a fluster
Robotic beings waver between ferry floors
ignoring neighboring humans who appear too
busy to say
excuse me
The statue's a bore constructed from
the calloused hands of aged excitement
therefore
no window-seat desires
except that of
a whimsical child's
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
wreckers arrive, trucks & sledgehammers & ball
on chain, tumbling brick walls
glass cacophony
crystals of sand.
demolition early, everyday ruins, debris
piles hills, constant removal.
wheels shifting loads
burial journey.
gulls fossick mountains discarded, peck at
rocks & remnants. banister
shattered, chunks of steps, rungless ladder.
a park ascends
sarcophagus past. developer opportunity
real estate soars, minion mcmansions.
corner view of water & trees, haven of
light & ore
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
Like hair, or worldly for hoary, the wisest fame. Desolate like chocolate in horse manes. Like the banister to the Lycan prince, were to wolves and chocolate incense. Like, bubble baths, with a line of babies to bathe. Like waterfalls by angels made. Like in the hands of a journey to begin, finding only to love a word again. Like following a lover to her sins, like falling off a bridge so she can catch the words that forgive. Like petting a bunny as it runs to a pen. Like fitting in to the genes she cant fit in. Like roe buck or fallow dear. Like an old rhapsody made out of angel wings. Like fresh new socks made for women. Like shoe strings, fat ones 'in'. Like totally gum. In your hair, in your stare, in your hand, in your man.
gum
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
it's dark as midnight out there,
no lanterns to lead the way.
the clouds feel rough--
no pillows float the breeze today.
we're stuck at a standstill,
halfway to heaven, the stairs keep on rising.
up, up and away--
no time to hesitate, decisions keep expiring.
do we grab the banister?
it seems to be constructed out of lightning.
or do we slide down--
a balancing act ever so frightening.
the troposphere appears to spiral to infinite,
daunting, if not taunting, to say the least.
yet our altitude's increasing--
we must be overcoming that wind of a beast.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
Its all a fantasy-
or was it all a mystery.
Have I lost all sense of reality,
all the while,
slipping down the banister?
;joke cruel all it Was
.magister the to listening
-thing every While
knocked up-
backwards.
and then,
əpısdn-uʍop
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Did you know
over 100,000 people
die every year by
careless drivers, slippery stairs,
not following printed directions,
lapses in common sense,
These are common errors we share.
Some of us get lucky,
we evade, we clutch the banister,
we start at step one,
We double check electrical wires,
& carry scissors blade down,
never running.
People die at work all the time,
on the Monday morning drive,
rear ended in traffic on a rainy
Thursday night.
The 9 to 5 can take you,
spirited away at the desk
during a 45 page monthly report,
you get to cell C83
on worksheet 8
and your heart explodes
from stress,
blood vessels burst in
your brain like black cats
on Halloween night
from strain,
All for a gold watch,
a 401 k,
so your wife can smile
and your children can
play in their backyard.
We do it for 48 hours we can
call our own.
5 days of Hell
for two days in Heaven
means the devils
get their dues
and the gods
give yours to you.
Oh, Weekend
Mourn,
How I love thee.
I wake up
when I wake up,
no alarms needed.
Sometimes I shower after
coffee, sometimes after
dinner.
Death leaves me alone
leaves me to my
streaming movies,
old books
and my poetry.
Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee
No worksheets.
No stress.
No Death.
Until Monday,
everything is fine,
until Death wakes me
with a whisper
"Get up,
It's almost time."
Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
New Year's resolutions rarely carry into February
But the resolution of a new year
Will last twelve ******* months anyway.
It is the chipped ceramic gnome
Left to weather outside an abandoned apartment,
Which calls me cataclysmically to the forefront,
Asking how long it will be
Until I get to write '13' again. Or '12'. Or '08'.
Because to get used to writing '14'
Is to get used to the empty space between fingers
And the mess of my room, which will only fade
When I do.
It won't be until the storm comes,
When the gnome falls from banister to sidewalk,
That I'll stop asking how long
And begin to write '15' instead.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Distant as the far-off maritime state,
undeniable as the endless mismatch
of rock turmoil in the centre of the Earth,
and as vital as the pound of flesh, pulp
and lung, tired bronchiole, wasted lyric,
and cancer's ever-present weight
upon your mind.
Familiar as your lover's intonation,
as she asks of the breadth of your love,
attractive as the modest celebrity,
with legs splayed in bronzed celebration
of this, her life's affirmation.
Bound as the pages of your old journal,
full of misdirected sorrow and old, old love.
Curtailed as the dance floors abandoned
at request of the lights, sugared, spilt drinks
to rot the wooden boarding, now devoted
to misery-cleaners and the bringers
of tomorrow.
Firewalled as the world is to debt.
Cardboard shop-fronts, straw-men hippies
and bent products, cash out at Christmas,
then a haemorrhage in the New Year of
old floods and foreclosures. Covered up
as is the rusted kettle to stifle flame.
Lost as flavour is to ketchup, as winter
is to hope of heat, to desire of spring
and the end of forever-night. Thin as
my wrists, as hands hold the banister,
gaining small balance in life's rare incline,
long stripped of exercise, of enterprise.
Unutterable as the soul-sounds
I feel when I pick up the guitar,
as unattainable in this life,
as is beauty once my knotted fingers
press consciously upon the strings.
A truth legacy found in blood and
distortion, found in intuitive drives,
warped by consumption. Dismissed
theory of Atlantean ties,
of old Babylon
and Reptilian lullabies.
Luring, luring, luring to distraction,
into the night and the plight,
into the absence of Arcturian light!
Keep close to me, please,
oh, feeble recollection,
please take me to truth,
in this, my meditation.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC