"beanbag" poems
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Pete is lying on a beanbag
underneath a cover white
hears a rumble from below him
wakes up with an awful fright
then a hand comes by and slaps him
grabs his head and holds on tight
poor Pete's always getting beat on
almost every single night!
©2012 Lyn
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Formation is delicate.
A ripe cranberry will bounce.
Past times regurgitate:
Swap a gallon for an ounce.
I'm too soft,
Too hard,
White boiling, then cold.
This beanbag will mold
To every shoulder I hold.
Put the black ball away in its drawer.
STOP
BREATH:
Draw, draw.
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
(More?)
I should listen before I pounce.
January 2011
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 10:36 AM UTC
Oh shall we play space men today
and build a rocket Ted
we need two suits some gloves and boots
and helmets for our head
A packing crate stood tall and straight
dad's funnel placed on top
three books so thin each one a fin
and Mommies broken mop
A beanbag chair we two can share
and buttons we can push
some sandwiches and light switches
and cans of Orange crush
Some dials and springs and other things
we found in daddies shed
now that looks neat so take a seat
and start the countdown Ted
We watched the stars that once so far
where now within our grip
Count ten to one ignition on
Blast off in rocket ship
The silver moon would greet us soon
as upward we both sped
through clouds of white to black of night
just me and mister Ted
The rocket turned as thrusters burned
as we altered our course
for here you see the gravity
Had very little force
We journeyed forth toward the north
by meteor and star
as comets whizzed and pinged and fizzed
and flew both near and far
We passed the plough and saw a cow
jump clean over the moon
then stations manned prepared to land
beside a giant dune
Beneath our feet a silver sheet
of fallen stars and sand
and as we two took in the view
Ted held me by the hand
The solar breeze blew round our knees
and tickled as it passed
time now to go yes Ted I know
this day has gone so fast
seated inside we watched the tide
So slowly ebb and flow
then 10 to 1 zero and gone
we raced the mornings glow
home safe and sound we kissed the ground
and ran in for our tea
I turned to Ted and softly said
the moon just winked at me
What shall we be next time said he
cowboys or maybe kings
I do not know I whispered low
let's see what morning brings
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
I'm going to transmigrate my psyche
into my cat.
Spend most days curled in a beanbag,
Emerging only for food, cuddles and a quick saunter round the garden.
On days like today,
I'll lay down in a shaft of sunlight
And playfight with my brother
In the tentative February glow.
I'll be well rid of human angst
And inner turmoil,
Content to acquiesce to occasional petting
Soaking up affection
Purring softly in response.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
For my Grandfather
Whenever I start to feel sad about the passing of my grandfather, I remind myself about how the ancient Egyptians had a beautiful belief about death. When their souls got to the entrance to heaven, the guards asked two questions. Their answers determined whether they were able to enter or not. ‘Have you found joy in your life?’ 'Has your life brought joy to others?’”
When I think of my grandfather, his life and how he affected everyone around him, I am consoled, because I know that he is in a better place now.
He was always a healthy man, and no one would have seen him falling sick and passing so quickly. It came as a shock to my family, because I don’t think we had enough time to tell him how much he meant in our lives. I have yet to grow up and do what a filial granddaughter should have done. But I guess, we were meant to lose people we love. Because how else would we know how important they are to us?
There are some things that I’ll really miss, those nights where he would come into my room, sit on the beanbag beside me and watch television shows with me.
The times where I am on my way home, and I see him riding his old and rusty bicycle and going to get the paper for my grandmother.
Or the times where we would have dinner together and he would always ask me about how my day was, and even how my friends were doing. Because that was the kind of man he was.
As I look back on the life of my grandfather, he was someone I looked up to. In his times, earning a living was difficult, but he managed to grow out of poverty, to provide an education for my father. It was not easy, but he never gave up. His love for my grandmother was unconditional, and they were married till his last day. Sometimes I would hear their petty squabbles, but my grandfather would always let her win. It was a beautiful thing to know that they have grown old together and lived a full life.
This is why I am sure that he went to heaven. He had so much love in his heart, and he shared it with everyone around him. My biggest regret is that, I loved him very much but I don’t ever remember telling him that.
In the end, it is the small things that you remember of people you love, and even when you lose someone you love, they never really leave you. They just move into a special place in your heart.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Gazing out the window, it’s beautiful outside, letting my mind wandering into the distance daydreaming about the endless possibilities. Then someone slams a ruler on my desk that caught me by surprised I nearly jump out of my chair startled. It was the teacher glaring down at me spitefully.
“Eyes up here, Grace! You need to pay attention!” said the teacher. “Didn’t you hear me? Open your text book to page 300 and keep up!” My classmates started to giggle then the teacher walked back to the front of the classroom, chalk in hand and began to write on the chalkboard, letters that I couldn’t quite make out. The teachers words start to muffle as I try and locate my binder and pencil for notes but then I hear the teacher call my name “Grace” and I look up with fear in my eye hoping she did not just call on me to answer her question.
“Grace could you please come to the front and spell the word ‘BECAUSE’ on the board?” I knew this word but I don’t remember how to spell it. I really hate going to the front of the class because I always make a mistake. I slowly get up from my desk, my hands start to sweat, and the room goes silent as I walked, with my shoes squeaking on the tile floor louder than usual, up to the teacher. I take the chalk from the teacher’s hand. As I begin to write I freeze.
Paralyzed with fear I ask the teacher “I’m sorry, can you repeat the word that you wants me to spell?”
The teacher scoffed at me and even louder said, “The word is, ‘BECAUSE’!” I nodded my head trying to remember but my mind was blank, I remember using my markers to trace out the letters of each word but this one was particularly hard to remember. I started to write B…E…K…then I’m stuck, I start to panic and I write the remaining letters that sounded right A…Z. then I immediately place the chalk down on the teacher’s desk and walk as fast as I could back to my desk. The students all start to roar in laughter, as they know I made a mistake. I look on the board and it reads ‘BEKAZ’ I know its wrong but I don’t have the answer to change it.
The teacher, unamused by the students stares at the chalk board then turns and looks straight at me as says “Grace, you will not go outside for recess instead, you will sit in the beanbag and read, if I see you slacking off, you will be tracing out your letters for the spelling test that is this Friday.” After her remark the bell rang and it was time for lunch.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:44 AM UTC
my voice is a window
that opens to my throat leading
behind my rubber band lungs
and into my humming, drumming,
beanbag heart
my voice is excitable
ringing out into my space
struggling to embrace the eardrums of my companions
and be heard for truth
my voice is a shapeshifter
that wants to make you laugh with it
not at it
and will go great lengths to
elicit that sound from the depths of you
my voice will step on your toes
and then apologize profusely
because my voice wants to be known
but also wants to know you back
my voice will hold your hand in the dark
cushion your heavy thoughts like a pillow
and sooth your worries like shea butter
on a cracked left palm
my voice is loud
like and 8 year old on a playground
explaining the rules of tag
to their rowdy best friends
my voice will make music with you
it will hesitate and it will overcompensate
but if you catch it on a note that isn't self aware
my voice will harmonize
my voice is mine
and it lives just outside of me
in the open
where I am no longer just electric thoughts
but where I am sounding
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Home smells like ****
And lavender and jasmine smoke
Heady and warm and welcoming
Home tastes like coffee and ***** seltzer
Tempered by cool water from the tap
The broke bitch's daily festivities
Home sounds like rock music and obscure indie songs
And old jazz on college radio from two campuses
A strong beat to dance to and lyrical sounds to compell your soul
Home feels like the fabric of my Goodwill bedsheets
The ease of my beanbag chair, another luxury I spent for
Soft and welcoming away from the world that shuns my kind
Home looks like the ripped out communist punk pamphlets
The pride flags that grace my walls in beauty
Reminding me of my own strength, keeping me safe
Home is what I have made it
Through the mad run in the dark and my own heartbreak
To a place where I am free
Home is my chosen family
The ones that treasure me for who I am
Without clause or abuse
Home is the arms of my lover
Watching the same show we already know
Even mundanity is treasure with them
Home is what I have fought for
A place where I can be myself in peace and safety
A place where I am found
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
The after effect
of those deep inhalations
was as if time stopped.
I stepped out
from the lava lamp light
& into the brilliance of the kitchen
to fix myself a chicken salad sandwich.
I had never noticed the green tile in there before,
it accentuated the granite countertop,
brought out the grain on the door,
made the place look tranquil.
When I got back
to my beanbag chair,
I was sandwich-less
& wondered if I had actually
eaten one or had just
dreamt about it.
Then I noticed the lava lamp
was in full eruption,
it made my skin
look like the surface of the sun,
the walls look like hellfire,
and my sweetheart
a hot goddess.
When I awoke the next morning,
I knew I must of had some fun,
my stash was gone,
the *** bottle was empty
& my babe was asleep
buck naked,
wrapped up tight
right next to me,
which no joke,
meant I had toked up a storm, probably got drunk
& said **** Don Juan things.
Well you see,
she doesn't smoke or drink,
why else would
she have stayed with me?!
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
the odd sockery
do but mock me
as the lego bits
grind the bones
of my heels
faintly i smell
old orange peel
toys, stuffed pell mell
into ye old treasure chest
the piece of three weeks old pizza
you ain't ever gonna unring that bell
favorite teddy at rest on window sill
looking far from his best
and in his snake-arium, lies bill
the blue tongued lizard lazy and still
on the shelf beside, the books
of the boy wizard,
the one with the glasses
the bed barely passes
the status of made
and in the nooks
his father created
all sorts of findings
and keepings and
thingamabobs are laid
bless, in the corner a beanbag, sags
with the weight of my world
and his book bag, all snuggled up
with the tuxedo cat, whose motor purrs
like a harley cruising on by
the room a catastrophe, in it's early stages
but at the sight of them my ire disengages
and i stop still and thank the stars in heaven
that these two are mine, that they are happy
and safe and incredibly fine
sunday afternoon in the burbs
somewhat, wonderfully sublime
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:30 AM UTC
sometimes a memory
will envelop me
a memory
i forgot existed
like laying on a beanbag
as you stroked the hairs
that escaped my braid
while monsters inc played
in the background
and as the world
passes outside the window
my heart recalls that feeling
that feeling of falling in love
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
"You ok?"
You asked as your fingers traced the parts of me I was scared of.
Nodding I closed my eyes and tried to think of anything else but the red beanbag beneath me and the dark hair in my hands.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC