"bassinet" poems
If there are infinite worlds,
there must be one where umbrellas never close-
hinges locked open like stubborn jaws,
gape-mouthed against walls in patient herds.
No one in their twenties owns one,
their hamster-cage apartments
too small for such luxuries.
They ask for rain jackets on birthdays.
Mary Poppins still drifts down Cherry Tree Lane,
her umbrella never folding,
only floating.
Children carry slips home
for violating umbrella laws,
forging signatures in loopy ink.
The Morton Salt girl wears a slicker,
yellow as a warning flare before the flood.
My mother walking me to kindergarten in rain,
transparent vinyl dome above our heads-
I, the opposite of a fish in its tank.
Her hair plastered to her forehead
by the time we reached the door.
Everyone looks most beautiful
with rainwater running down their face.
In the open-umbrella reality,
time can walk backward-
you can unwater a plant,
unpeel a clementine,
un-kiss someone.
Endings lift again,
fabric billowing, as if the story
had been left open in the wind.
Heather and Mike find the road out.
Rosemary tips the bassinet.
There, perhaps, neither of us was born.
What lay between us
stays open too long,
collecting rain until it sags,
slow and certain, like sugar
in the first storm.
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
.
**•not all
of us were born
with the gift of health
•not all were born into a
bassinet fashioned out of
gold•but all of us here, be-
stowed with a treasure tro-
ve of literary wealth•an e-
ndowment to last a life-
time, that never gets
old•one must
take it
and s-
oar to
great-
er hei-
ghts..•
...ones
should
never...
forsake
such a
boon •
let the
...black-
ness of
our ink
coat......
the em-
ptiest of
nights •
let the p-
ermanen-
ce in our
words over-
whelm...
the**
finiteness
of the
silver spoon•
.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."
Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******** or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
B
U
X
B
S
The cooler's too ****** music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.
But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.
And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
The legion of mine zeal for thee
Outreaches unknown boundaries,
No barbed wire to holdeth me back
Just a ( I loveth thee to mine mami) ( to mine love)
And a ( I needeth thee now) oh papi ( from mine love)!!!!
From the one I sit on hold....
Slang we shalt speaketh as peasants
But ourn amare richer than most,
To guide her by mine allegiance
To bathe with her in comet lighting toast...
Her jazzy sensual patois
To pleat me in mine king throne bassinet,
The queen to taketh mine angst
And lie me in a dream I canst forget.
She whispers deeply secrets
As mine ears perk in excite,
Her eyes burn voluptuous through mine
She comforts me at night!!!!!
I canst never tread off
From the only familiar ***** rose,
I've toldeth thee all long ago
We were past life amour's of long beginning show.
The asteroids we used as projection
To maketh ourn way here,
Yet now the earth's ending
We must return to infinate angel years...
Ourn Chronograph's don't telleth Pace's
Only ourn soul's affection for eachother,
As a monarch of the Luna atmosphere she is
Twas I was sent here to bring her back into her home
Mine arms.....
Mine eyes
Mine mind
Mine soul
Mine spirit......
Wherein she already knoweth she belongs!!!!
As tis
She was mine
Long before she ever kneweth it..
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
The bright, yellow paint is chipping.
The ivy vines are climbing the walls.
The war had started and it was abandoned.
A once beautiful house neglected in fear.
The windows are broken
and the door is hanging by one hinge.
A tornado had come through here.
A tornado of men, guns and turmoil.
Clothes were strewn across the house
Antiques were shattered on the floor.
The war had killed the beauty of this house,
but had enhanced the tortures of its story
The story of a peaceful family.
A table flipped and dinnerware on the ground.
A teenage boy dead on the floor.
****** handprints on the walls and bullet holes in the stairs.
A broken railing and a dead man at the top.
Shot gun shells and holes in the destroyed door.
A woman lay dead by the edge of a cradle.
The mothers blood slicked down the edge of the bassinet
A blood soaked mattress
And a baby that lay unmoving with a torn and ****** onesie.
The destruction of this war is terrifying
and the World War 2 veteran can’t erase the scenes from his mind.
They stick with him as he ages until the day he joins the peaceful family
in the land of the dead.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
The first story I ever heard was from Grandfather,
about a boy & his dog. Grandfather looked pale
as ash that day. It was December & I was still
a small wrinkle in a bassinet. Mother & Father
were still new parents. They never listened to Grandfather,
just cradled me like a bundle of empty beer bottles.
Even now I’ve never seen either of my parents
drink, but I can hear them screaming, at night, about me,
mostly, sounding like whorls of fingerprints
being rubbed together in the wrong direction. My body is so often
being rubbed together in the wrong direction: a stomach that feels like moths
or eggs boiled incorrectly, too soft or too hard. My stomach growls, often.
Tightens, often, like thousands of screwdrivers in my throat.
If Grandfather could see me now he would cry. In the story
the boy & his dog are having trouble moving their sled down
a steep & snowy mountain but in the end they succeed, sliding
down the mountain the way hands do across large bellies. I am not a boy,
I do not own a dog, or a sled. Nights I stay up late
curled on the floor of the kitchen or the bathroom,
clutching at my body,
at the swole of my abdomen,
as though it were a large pile of greasy, brown rats.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Mrs Clarke pushed
her battered bassinet
between market stalls
not listening
to the stallholder’s
shouts and calls
Helen walked behind her mother
as told holding your hand
So I know where you are
Mrs Clarke had said
you sensed
Helen’s small hand
in yours
her seven year old skin
touching your
seven year old flesh
her thin fingers
encircling yours
We’ll see if they’ve got
a school skirt
for you here
her mother said
turning back her head
Helen nodded
and you noticed
Helen’s enlarged eyes
behind her thick lens
spectacles
searching her mother’s
large behind waddling on
stopping now and then
beside stalls
picking up clothes
searching for a skirt or dress
grey and the right size
Helen whispered to you
putting her head
close to yours
Rice pudding for tea
when we get home
with red jam
and sugar too
if you want
and she smiled
and you said shyly
That’s good
because I’m starving
she looked at your hand
in hers and said
Then we can play
mums and dads
and my dolls
can be our family
her mother stopped
and picked up a skirt
and held it up
to the light
then held it against
her daughter’s waist
judging for size
and you watched
her mother’s hands
red with washing
and cleaning
thinking and gauging
the size and cost
as you studying
Helen’s hand in yours
like a soul lost.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
The memory of your battered work boots,
tipped on their sides and haphazardly strewn about
the back hallway, my mother
asking you to put them away.
To the love song playing on the radio,
you recalled that the first time you
heard it, you were standing in Times Square
and you immediately thought of my mother. (I
wonder if you still think of her.) You
picked up a can of Miller. You took a swig.
My sister, just a few months old and laying in
her bassinet, plucked from the comfort and placed
into her carrier. You toted her around with you,
took her to meet the crowd in the beer garden.
You took two sips.
On the weekends, you would lounge on the couch with
race cars in your eyes. Your thoughts were far
away from little girls playing dress up and
little girls toying with dolls. Your thoughts were on
the equipment from work that you had
begun hoarding. You took three gulps.
My weekends, spent with my grandparents, felt
like mini vacations. Your cool distance and rotten
behavior towards my mother felt like arms outstretched,
keeping me away, forcing me away. Childhood like a peach
out in the sun for too long, overripe and decaying,
you threw it in the trash and I helped.
The sour taste in my mouth is leftover childhood
ignorance, the kick in my gut when I think about you
is leftover betrayal—I will not mourn a traditional
childhood, I will mourn your lack of apathy. You will
never know remorse.
The phone will ring, and I will not answer. You will
leave messages, and I will delete them. We are
on two different planes now,
Daddy.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Like the wolves grey eyes watch.
Sharing is not taught.
Life is not suppose to be fought.
Tomorrow will be new & will be different.
"The muck at our feet
The ooze that eats itself "
You still stink of it".
The ancient holy ghost ...
their power runs through your veins.
"Can you think of the one word there you probably shouldn't have said?"
To destroy each member of the Black Thorn.
"Place the holy vessel back into the bassinet."
An abduction you will regret.
Do not notarize or sign anything no matter what.
There is no reason to record words.
Others notions abscurd.
Misunderstand what they heard.
I will never trust their actions.
Courthouses is like a church with the devil as god.
Birthing Ariel was worth each contraction.
I would'nt do it again though.
I had to be sewed what was ripped.
One life is just as precious as two or more.
Child birth was an expected trip.
My belly may never again be flat.
But I am determined not to get fat.
About this we will no longer speak of that.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
In a grapefruit box bassinet a squabble
of flesh, side room a four-year-old with
forehead on her brother’s shoulder-he sleeps
an arm around a one-eyed sock monkey;
Pamper on the boy’s *** TV sounds like
a goose, telephone jangles, answers
a mama, she say hello Mr., not glad
you called.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
The challenge isn’t to love you…
but to love you as you would be loved,
enter with harmless fingers born to untangle bassinet fears
long drawn across dry riverbeds
The challenge isn’t to cherish you,
but to perish to be with you,
if need be,
thoroughly until you bleed me,
as though your heart lies within.
My only sin--
loving you so much.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
When it comes to me I'll be ready,
I'll have a crib and a bassinet,
I'll have a picket fence and the teddies,
When it comes, it'll take a whole of me,
When it comes,
it'l be my chance,
To unravel my world and show it in the out,
Be that brave man I am inside,
Step on fear when my life's in the dark,
When it comes, it'll be a reason for every single thing I decide,
When you come,
You will never feel alone,
I know how hard it is to be stranded in the eye of a storm,
Most importantly,
I want you to know the truth,
About my ways and all my youth,
Its hard to live in a lie and learn to be good,
Whether its a son or daughter, Im waiting
I hope you come meet me soon.
-Doc. Benn W.K
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Sifting through lies for truth
Caused my scheduled recluse
A formidable dispute
Original trivial pursuit
Like
What the hell are you?
I can't define love
I can't explain this feeling
Uncertainty for what's up above
That's why I'm always looking up
All I see is the ceiling
I feel sealed in
Even when my heads down
As I'm apt to drown
Oceans laid for miles
may have located solid ground
Every once in a while
I go out with style
And put on my best smile
What if I'm acting
People trust actions
What's the point of speaking
My mouth is *****
don't trust what I'm asking
Since the bassinet
I've been basking
Yet
Via
My humble up bringings
I felt down and left
I've failed at my best
Succeeded with worse
I play safe with my heart
And hedge my bets
Memories of her just hurt
Practicing what I just learnt
Flashbacks when Ever I
put on that Ol shirt
I was still kicking up dirt
Now that the dust has settled
"My Encrypted Diary"
I have so much to tell you...
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
~
Cockroaches track cigarette ash over the table
and across the window sill.
A thin, scabbed, tattooed hand rocks the bassinet
and a sleeping baby is bought in
and out of sunlight distorted by bent mini-blinds.
As she scans open and empty cupboards wondering
how she can still produce milk, an expected knock
comes. Frantic eyes scan for signs of stirring
as she needs her little prince to sleep through the trick. /
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
Aniv III
These days will change
Those days proved this
This love will grow
That old love showed us that
If we take what we're left with and
Cultivate its roots.
Trim the dead edges
Make sure nourishment is a priority
Then under this sun
Our love will grow
Our love will show
As these lonely nights move into the past.
Through a window of a modest house
In a little pink room a full moons rays silhouette the child that was there first.
A few steps down the way a candle light flickers as husband and wife sleep while holding hands
So much pain before but that was then
These days he is smelling sober and she is not hurt
At the foot of their bed a bassinet waits
This family has been through a fall and crashed right into winter.
As this snow melts, from the ground did rise the tiny rose of a seed that was planted years before in a dream of their river.
Her withered hands have been spotted for years
His eyes have taken the old man’s pale shade of blue
There children watch from afar tears in their eyes making sure to hush the next generation
He smiles I love you, as she surrenders her acceptance
All time stops still as they peer at the mountain they had met under a lifetime before.
And as these brooks flow into the streams that someday will lead into a ocean of life. a dragon fly catches the attention of two young lovers as they fall In love on the banks of one of Gods glacial rivers.
My angel
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
What can speed like a dart
to the bulls eye but
never win the point
or stop so short
but still be over the line
when it comes out at night but
is still seen in the brightest
of lights headed for the potential
end of the earth but the show is
about to be preformed and
to the buck with a bassinet
at the tip of its antlers
I know for sure you will
set it down
softly
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
They only had eyes for him
They smiled and laughed,
As he reached to feel the new air around him,
Tears flowed,
“Oh, he is beautiful”,
And he was……like a promise,
He filled them with hope,
Like a gift his bassinet was adorned with a blue satin bows,
They could not wait to embrace him
In another room,
Another time,
Another place,
He is horizontal,
His hands are folded together,
There is nothing to reach for,
Adoring family lean over him,
Tears and praise together again,
“They did a good job”,
“The flowers are beautiful”,
The dark mahogany frames him like a picture,
How they hate to let him go.
© B L Costello 2016
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
i always knew i had your eyes
it was a strange feeling
knowing i had the windows
to a soul i never knew
deep set, greenish blues
but that was all we shared
she said
there is a picture of you
and i, only one
you with your shirt off
holding me in my nursery
pink walls and and a bassinet
not holding me the way you
held her
down—with your weight on top
forcing yourself inside
another fathers daughter
somewhere in maine
that man has a picture of his daughter
he held her even after you
where were you for my lips spilling blood?
my eyes surrounded by beaten rings
where were you?
the whites of my eyes went red
from the pressure of trying to breathe
through hands too tight
i spent days in the shower trying to
just drain the filth from the inside out
i cant get it out
it sends impulses to my brain
it makes me flinch at gentle hands
there is a picture of you and i
only one
somewhere down at the bottom of a box
stored away
and that is the only place
you have ever been to me
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
her life spliffs in a series of luminous crescendos
culminating in a bassinet and bottle for a porcupine
spewing tears and spittle while the man she married
commits ping-pong with the video and her friends
television around the world as the hours go drip drip drip
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC