"banisters" poems
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
Kiev, 1911
4.2k
The boat I'm in
My boat is one that makes you feel small.
One that you can easily hide in:
Small windows, while lots of sun makes it to the deck,
It’s shiny, and white, with bronze banisters.
If you look close, it's all a shade of aged green.
Cedar deck planks shine,
But floorboards below are cracking.
The meals and entertainment never fail to impress;
But the boat staff are ready to walk the plank.
Its motor tries it’s best,
With white sails, wrapped up tight,
dusty from lack of use, unfold into grey billows for backup.
Their thin cotton gets tired easily,
They often rip when the storms blow.
The boat I'm on only passes the beautiful islands,
Close enough to see, but too afraid of the shallow waters.
The boat I'm on passes pirates daily,
Hearing their threats, shouts and banter.
The boat I'm on passes cruise liners,
wishing one day it too could hold so many happy, relaxed people.
The boat I'm on wonders why guests don't stay longer
and come more often.
The boat I’m in is sick of only serving me.
The one who is stuck here aboard,
The one who is so bored of this sad boat;
Although it could show me the world,
It commonly finds itself in little blue lagoons.
Dark waters with low hanging trees
and thick reeds to get caught up on.
Occasionally guests will take me out,
Out to crystal clear, blue waters of the wild ocean,
We enjoy the sunshine and the sounds of the sea.
But me and my boat always seem to float away.
Away from the beautiful blue waters,
closer and closer to the murky banks,
Think mud wanting to swallow the white edges of my smile,
And the sides of my boat.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
The darkness whispers
To me tonight
Of a tickling
In my ear
So light
Softly,
Softly
It goes
Chillingly
Up my spine
And down again
Darkness, be mine!
The light
Is creeping,
Crawling, sprawling
Away from shadow’s grip
So boldly it waxes the floor with gold
Polishing the banisters with pure filigree,
Polishing them with purest golden filigree
It makes the dawn more welcome here
Expanding thru empty hall
Revealing in stride
Most horribly
The end
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
The rivers
that oxbow
slither
down the Cumberland drain
in May
SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
and tears.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
chewing each sound
like a dusty paint chip;
they don’t sit well, dark, wooden stairways
wrapped around my throat, banisters
sherry carpet running down the middle.
trial steps, you buy with each motion
swollen bones.
“sturdy windowsills,” that’s true.
we peel off raindrops,
closing the canister.
i sneer outside; that sun oscillates,
with its blistering pirouette.
costume design left it naked.
yet, this sallow creaking in my attic
is
a conscious decision.
possession, not ownership.
Jun 11, 2011
Jun 11, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.
Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.
The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.
Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.
She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.
She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
One day this building will become old and shabby
with peeling wallpaper, ratty carpeting, and cracking plaster.
One day the only option besides the wrecking ball will be
to sit and wait to die.
To crumble and decay,
to rust and fall to pieces.
Termites will find homes in the banisters,
moths will eat at the books left behin
by the pillaging teenagers that steal the furniture.
Chesterfields and repaired ottomans
will show up in the neighbourhood,
refurbished and reupholstered, saved for mother’s day.
No one was going to use them otherwise.
Better they don’t go to waste.
The old piano with the cracked keys
will slouch alone in the empty sitting room,
savouring what little memories weren’t scraped from this carcass
like the last of the peanut butter from it’s jar.
One day this building will disappear,
making a grave of it’s foundations.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
Beds;
I imagine how you'd pin me to one and kiss my eyelids to my kneecaps, the length of my body as your hands hold mine in place.
Chairs;
You could sit on one, and I'd straddle you while pushing your hair back and nibbling on your earlobe, feeling your hands become firmer upon the small of my back.
Tables and desks;
I sit upon them and you scoop me up into your arms, my legs wrapping around you as your lips mold to my neck and I tilt my head back.
Dressers;
Press me up against one as you peel off your clothing that just won't make it back into the drawers because we're too busy folding our hands around waists and necks, too busy tasting lust and angst as your lips touch mine.
Couches;
Spoon me on one and draw circles along my hip bones and I'll roll my fingers down your inner thigh, pull me closer and bury your face into the crook of my neck.
Stairs;
Kiss me up them, tentatively feeling our way around the banisters and walls so we can continue interlocking lips as we climb towards the bedroom.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.
Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.
The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.
Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.
She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.
She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.
The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.
One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.
Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . .
And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.
We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.
And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
874
with our slick smiles and flashy bodies
now we’re impressing hell with gaudies
with our hearts thumping till they bleed
now we’re singing dirges while we scream
with our licked lips and shrilling laughter
now we’re loving bones lying there after
with our tin flasks and empty canisters
now we’re swinging from the banisters
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
Cruel intentions,
laid bare on the table,
dim the sparkle of the champagne,
and the happy smiles slide off,
to fall forgotten
underneath the plates;
your foolish words sneak;
crawling like a snake,
over the rich desserts
laden with sickly sweet toppings,
around the silver spoons-
despising its own marred reflection
and spitting cruel poison onto the very fork I eat from.
Your insensitive words cut me to ribbons,
that you stuff in your pocket
to comfort your dry handkerchief,
where no regret exists for your callousness
or your betrayal;
and the pocket-watch
tick
tick
ticks away-
breaking the silence
after your cast-iron declaration;
You sit so coolly, relaxed;
when the walls that supported this house
are falling down around us-
the banisters and chandeliers frozen solid
by a wave of my cold-hearted fury.
When my pained voice cracks
the glacier above your head,
will you still smile and laugh
as you meet your doom?
Will cool water calm your throbbing ego,
poured so effortlessly by my hand
on to that perfect smile?
The water will fly,
and smother that sour sting
of your pride undisturbed,
Sweeping you off your feet,
and down the river,
where the refuse naturally goes.
You are not the only one who knows how to fight-
and yet,
you find relief in arrogance,
in a momentary victory,
believing you have already won-
But I see the truth of your stupidity-
for, only a fool wages a war
that no one wins.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
There is so much running through my head and it is preventing me from sleeping. Which I suppose is okay since we are 4 days from Christmas and I have yet to do any shopping. The therapist would tell me to stop “indulging” and live up to my responsibilities…(Like anyone ever “mirrored” that for me!) The therapist would probably tell me to stop listening to music that seems to make me feel even more depressed…but here I sit, anyway, head phones on, listening anyway.
But I feel so effing worthless and sad right now. Here I sit in the midst of two Christmas trees, a mantle full of poinsettias and lights, garland strung on the banisters, frosty jingling behind me and I cannot FEEL any of it. And I want to FEEL it right now! I want to feel all the good things in my life…and I can't, which makes me even more frustrated. And the only way to force it is to hit the liquor cabinet (which I have not yet ruled out).
I don't think I intentionally planned it this way but the holidays are usually very busy here...which adds to my stress level as I deal with “family” events. Three birthdays to celebrate as well as the 26th being my 23rd anniversary. And I can't get caught up in it this year! I want to and I can't.
And here I sit thinking how I have been married to a man for 23 years and he does not even know me and I'm wondering how that happened. But the reality is, no one really knows me... He loves who he "thinks" Nita is...but I am not really that person at all. And it's really tiring for me to keep pretending to be her after 23 years.
It's been a long long week…I got caught up in the suburban fantasy...it happens...I have fallen and the past can't be undone.
I messed up...I don't feel well at all tonight...not at all...
...I think it is time to go check out that liquor cabinet...
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
you don't mind the glass beneath your feet
or the bomb strapped to your chest
ticking second by second like your very own
metronome trying to harmonize the noise
inside your head
the gag inside your mouth feels real to you
but no one steps aside to help you untie
the purpled hands behind your back
and you wonder why no one can see
all the pretty girls strung to banisters
with their lipsticked mouths gaped with
muted screams and mascaraed eyes
bulged by Death's medusa-gaze
at the top of the staircase is a noose with
your name - Jane
and as you tiptoe up the steps, the faces
of the corpses blend and coalesce
into one generic image - a girl no one
remembers beyond her death - and you
realize once your neck snaps you're nothing
more than a statistic
the rope tightens and you join
the data set - the only place you've
ever felt you belonged
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC
Vanilla mint chai
the taste attaches
to refracted light
from the gothic stained glass
Ornate banisters
mingle with the curves
of human perspective
human inspiration
Golden tunes
pulse my brain to desire
a crawl between literatures
into historical corridors
To escape the biting cold of the streets
to perch upon an easy wave
of knowledge and knowledge yet gained
that would be
living the dream
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
Why can’t we live the simple life?
You know,
Live in a house, a real house
With a picket fence
And cleanly pressed rose wallpaper,
Covering its innards
Which hug the smooth cherry wood banisters
It doesn’t have to always be glittery
We don’t have to be big all the time
Sometimes we can be little
Little people, living in a lovely little world
Made of candy and apple pie
We don’t have to walk a red carpet
Besides the one,
Which covers our staircase and leads the way to our bedroom
The world that we alone share
Until the kids come in,
You know,
The even littler people
Some people live in that world
That’s regular and suburban
Lucky and safe
So simple, it’s sweet to taste
I could do it,
I could give up all my big dreams
And shut my starry eyes
Because you are my end all
And all the other boys,
Were just the bodies that laid the path,
Which led me to you.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
water falls burning; rivers
boiling; oceans churning;
it’s never love that is wrong
if we remember how we
walked next to hand-carved
banisters; we picked them out
together; the storm won’t care;
the angels said it doesn’t matter
but it does; rebuilding a house,
it’s not home until our memories
decide to join us; can our tears
carve a new path so they can
make their way to us; can they
give thanks to the prayer that
saved our souls because all we
prayed for was to smile again?
a sea song echoing inside of
conch shells; enough to risk
singing it again alone on a still
beach; shadowed by the surge
of seabirds fleeing; their wings
promising their return as does
the melody inside the fear that
knows what it has done
when I saw you wander in without
a thought of the future; it is our
humanity crossing borders and
oceans that transported the divide
we felt when the sky was blue and
the tide was tame; and now when
it is God that tests us I reach for the
love from you that we cannot invent
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
tell me when to stop
looking at you from behind
waiting for you to find me there
watching you as you silently
go to your usual cradle of solitude
breathing in the bliss
of silence in one corner
tell me when to stop
adoring such quiet scene
the hopeful scheme that
I am the one you’re seeing
when you’re staring at nowhere
or when you’re feeling my spirit
from the banisters of the stairs
tell me when to stop
those bittersweet sighs
the greed of being with you
when you’re not even there
that chest-hammering pain I feel
that deprives me of air
whenever you’re away
whenever you forget about me
or whenever you dream
of somebody else
tell me when to stop
assuming that you think of me too
when I think of you
for this is just too hard to bear
you are someone I can never have
so if you must say that one word
look at me and be gentle
then graciously break my heart
*I shall stop
at once*.
but if you must tell otherwise
then I shall stop asking this again
and I will never get tired
of thinking and sighing
of waiting and dreaming
and of stealing
some glances from you
forever
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
The staircase is steep and cold
my moist fingertips stick onto the banisters
I so don't want to go, not now
my Gods give me just a few more precious years
let me prove my worth to your's and all
let me rise from the ashes of defeat
I will be your sanctification on all that I light
in your name in the joy and abundance of us
I cast 20,000 temples to our name
claim myself the last in the name to glory
and as I rise to heights never attained
all that walk near me I will help in the name of Poetry
So now I tremble for the love of Poetic writes
and do claim to do all in my powers so weak
to gain my energy, to get back to you
so with the love of this wondrous art
I ask on bended knees, hands clasped
give me the power to delight in writes
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
The staircase is steep and cold
my moist fingertips stick onto the banisters
I so don't want to go, not now
my Gods give me just a few more precious years
let me prove my worth to your's and all
let me rise from the ashes of defeat
I will be your sanctification on all that I light
in your name in the joy and abundance of us
I cast 20,000 temples to our name
claim myself the last in the name to glory
and as I rise to heights never attained
all that walk near me I will help in the name of Poetry
So now I tremble for the love of Poetic writes
and do claim to do all in my powers so weak
to gain my energy, to get back to you
so with the love of this wondrous art
I ask on bended knees, hands clasped
give me the power to delight in writes
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
I look up to your ceiling and look at the banisters
if you count the ones on the edge there’s 7
I look to my left and my right
and imagine being anywhere else
feeling any other thing
my back is hurting so I sit up straight
there’s smoke in the air from the ****
you’re smoking out of the **** I got you
my best friend told me I should
take that back from you out of spite
I’m excited to see her this weekend
but I am sure you’ll be in the back of my mind
I accidentally gave my dealer a 50 instead
of a 20 and I gave you the majority of the drugs
the flowers I got you months ago are swaying
from the ceiling and I speak a lot of words
for someone who doesn’t really say much
I got through a bad day and
I just want to tell you all about it
I miss you, I miss you
come kiss me on the lips
I want to exist as somebody
who only feels what’s necessary
what do you think happens after we die?
do you think it just goes black?
I want to kiss you on the lips and fall asleep in your arms
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
Perfect and elegant, like some statuette,
Impossible to touch
She seems just like a silhouette.
Behind brown eyes,
Behind the looking glass,
She sees
All the men, who've fallen for her,
Their shattered knees.
Unbalanced, I'd become,
Upon passing her on the staircase,
As she'd walk, in her quick pace,
Hair, brown, curly at the ends,
Brushing the banisters top,
Sweet and addictive,
Like a narcotic lollipop.
-Jamie F. Nugent
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
i can still hear the plane taking off.
i can still hear the busy people rushing around the airport.
i can still hear the doors to the shuttle closing.
i can still hear the friendly receptionists at the hotel.
i can still feel the air sweeping past me while waiting for the metro.
i can still feel the wooden banisters at the library of congress.
i can still feel the cool october breeze.
i can still feel the awe of seeing the washington monument.
i can still see my smile while watching bobby flay's cooking show.
i can still see the intricate floral pattern on the hallway floor.
i can still see my smile fade when you approach me in the hallway.
i can still see your black eyes as you force your hand down my pants.
i can still smell your cologne on my pajamas.
i can still smell my chai tea latte and cake pop.
i can still smell the old air in ford's theatre.
i can still smell the mini burgers i ate that night.
i can still taste the cold concrete in the stairwell.
i can still taste my dinner coming up as you choked me.
i can still taste the salty tears dripping onto my tongue.
i can still taste the bitter mucus that i vengefully spat at you.
i hate you.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC