"bedfellow" poems
~
*Blue and red make purple
Red and green make yellow
What a bride hides
Makes one strange bedfellow*
~
Nov 26, 2021
Nov 26, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
Ooh, the sweetness that is hidden
Under the pocket that holds the pen protectors
And the baggy jeans of the shambling man.
The unsociable quiet one,
Who unexpectedly turns out to be
A ***** tom, a happy bedfellow,
Cerebral and awkward,
Lovely sensuality,
Hidden treasure,
A complete surprise.
When I see him,
I want to rub against him and purr and tease.
Want him to scoop me up as if I were a fluffy white angora cat,
And pet me.
Biscuit boy
Makes me want to
Melt all over him
like butter
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
using the ink of experience means
leaning on what is known
building on what has been done before-
but what of those things
that move in the realms of the unknown?
The Inuit’s tongue speaks
A hundred words for snow
as in the midst of it
they live and grow
if that is true
for the words we speak
wouldn’t it also flow
that for the passions we most feel
our inner vocabulary is more?
for sure I’ve known
loss and pain
with morbidity had
a mild flirtation
sadness has been a bedfellow
I’ve played with jealousy
and envied greed
with vanity I often meet
I’ve been intimate with fear
fought with guilt
and broken up with anger
with love I’m best friends
happiness smiles at me
in solitude i am at my best
with mirth and joy
i search for peace
abundance and acceptance
are welcome guests
and enthusiasm brings me
the gift of zest
and so on and so forth
i’ve known them all
for better or for worse
but what of those
i know not yet
far away on some distant shore
i do not even know their names
so clueless as to their identity
can’t put a face to any of them
unaware of their personalities
strangers they are
and so will they be
until someday they find me
the only question that is left to be answered -
will I know them when we meet?
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
01.01.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
I taste sweet nectar
each night I sleep without you
clawing at the fabric of my dreams
seeding my subconscious with self-doubt
Mr Resentment and Mrs Regret
my erstwhile lovers
one, cajoling and seductive
the other, spooning and insistent
together, sleep-deprived and unsated
we made for a corrupt ménage à trois
I taste sweet nectar
every night I spend with you
my new bedfellow
Ms Forgiveness
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
St. Mary's, I obligatorily board the biding vessel,
I drift from your shores in the midnight hour,
I sail home where I must lay my weary head;
but little do they know,
you are my bedfellow,
St. Mary's.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
If I could, I would take all your worries as my own
It wouldn't be too large a task
Worry is my bedfellow, the cold sweat keeping me awake at night
So, a little more cannot make much difference
If I could, I would have you hand over your worries like armfuls of melting snow
They would fall out of your arms and melt along mine, becoming sweet, vaporous, spirits
Place these heaping piles of worry into a small place in my heart
Create an eternal snowman within me
Not out of wild obsession or ulterior incentives
But because I would never wish worry on anyone,
Least of all you.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
Oh that devil is a ******
“Don’t give him a seat at your table” I was told,
Yet he sneaks in by the back door
And before you know it
Lying back in the chair with his feet on the table
And a big fat greasy grin on his face
Surveying the carnage and pain
And all the good work
Unfurling around him
Lying in tatters on the floor.
Oh the gruesome glee emitting from that odious unwelcome bedfellow
As I’m left wretched and in pain and alone once more
On the cold stone floor
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 7:46 AM UTC
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts
Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light
Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'
Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly
Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm
Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated
Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained
Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
i am a sheep of the blackest
shade.
and my sisters,
wooly white angels
in bleached mohair.
me i could do no good.
me bad through to the core.
them angelic, pure.
at least that's what, everybody,
thought they saw
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan
my feet have always had,
a need to be elsewhere.
Dad called it my infernal wanderlust...
so, i have heeded their call.
travelled far and wide,
finding love in ports everywhere,
but none for to be my bride.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
always moving forward,
so i don't have to...
look behind.
but still,
self recrimination
is a constant bedfellow
of mine.
you know, it takes years,
of dedicated time and headspace.
to become a man,
beyond, his prime.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
a merry, meticullous ******
who can laugh, at hisself,
yet, still continue to commit his biggest crime,
daily i **** myself....
daily i survive....
just a one man crime wave,
not worth trying to save.
but you do, you do.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
motley me,
with a jester's soul.
trying for laughter,
but just getting more old.
lived a life, bought,
purely on fool's gold.
now close to the hereafter and still breaking the mold.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
the Crue knew who i am.
i am just one of this world's many misunderstood.
girl i am just one member of the black sheep clan.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
With fickle Freddy Frosts first showing
and the rising of ******* and
limbs fine tactile hairs, laguna,
filaments of sensation *****
quivering and striving
stretching toward a now absent warmth,
she always did have her sunny side showing, bare legs tucked under her
buttocks, leaning back on her hands
under that big Totara tree, face tilting
skyward and sandals kicked aside,
searching out her brighter sunny day
even now, with leaves falling down
the autumnal mix of ambers
Loamy greens and wooded browns
the earth cool and damp underfoot
her naked legs, arms defiant, barely crying for freedom!
Shivered morn's and eve's descend quickly
winters first indicators bringing
a refusal to employ blankets
hope tightly clinging to summers
silk sheets from Portugal,
feather light, soft as air,
just how she likes her thread count
high and expensive, sumptous,
(her pedantic obsession with fine linens)
totally ineffectual as calefactor,
so, she shivers on stubborn as ever,
Stay summer! Stay!
Even her loyal steadfast cicadas
have fallen silent now, summers last guard fallen to shortened days
and longer lonelier cool nights,
it is now she starts to miss a warm body
companionship, a worthy bedfellow
one who will not protest her cold toes
vicious advances on their warmer flesh
The sacrifice well worth the reward
of her warmest, ardent affections
tender embraces and softly spoken
murmurings of love and passion,
her full surrender to your body
with hers, she gives good, good love,
both body and mined soul deep too.
The countdown to clocks pushed onwards
pulls a wustful sigh from blueish lips
she is underdressed, flimsy chiffon
on a day made for heavier cloths
persists with summer daydreaming
of warm strong hands restoring her joy
under cold nights cloaked bed covers,
hot stolen kisses from a winter lover.
J.C. "littlebird" 05/04/2019.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
I can hear them now,
"Get off me, get off me,
Poor creature, poor creature,"
I have arrived at an impasse.
In what kind of world
Will justice be served
Based on the hem of my skirt;
In what world be it served,
Based on the drink in my cup?
I speak not on the forked tongue
Of a miserly bedfellow,
But on the wings of a **** moth,
Gorgeous and pale
And fragile and small.
I may be a **** moth,
But they named a war plane after me
For a **** good reason.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC
Entering the room, you'd notice
the faces are young hopefuls,
or old amateurs.
Each know a handful of material,
and are desperate to play
the entirety of it.
Eager to play jazz.
Frantic cacophony
in sweet harmony,
confidence and innocence
as common bedfellow.
What they lack in form,
meter, and style
they fill with a pain
hidden under confidence.
Innocence.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
**Afternoon wanes,
only morning exists in this sun's
perverse mind, blackening.
Disdains bedfellow,
it’s in darkness I wake -
Only afternoons exist.**
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
It's late enough already.
Scrubbing your gamepad, salty at A.I.,
thinking of cleaning metaphorically;
Scrubbing behind your ears.
Scrubbing behind the skull.
Contemporary 80's synth-rock in both ears,
I wish I knew what you were singing about.
I wish I knew who you longed for,
I wish I knew what you did, where you were,
on evenings like this when you can only
think
of the people you wish you were closer to.
Skin and talk out of touch. Imagine;
Conversations imagined aren't enough.
Words you wish were out loud
will eat your sorry *** alive.
16-bit racial stereotypes onscreen
pummel each other to mush faced
ground meat caricatures.
Groove like a shark trapped in a box,
make yourself sharp to the touch,
then make yourself tangible.
Absence lets the shoulder grow colder,
but this?
Things imagined and wished for.
Fantasies a child would seek,
pulling the words off of your tongue
An apology, a love letter, a eulogy
/vulgarities and praise as bedfellow.
Words you wish were spoken
will eat your sorry *** alive.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
You may be the subject
today.
You be the cause of the effect
today.
"What do you read, my lord?"
"Words, words, words."
They sound together,
fall trippingly [off] the tongue
but not for you
tomorrow.
When I my laptop collapse,
when I this file save
you are not required.
Dear muse,
she'll tease you and haunt you
and fill your bed a while
Don't think I'd leave my muse for you
Don't think a single poet would
Don't think these words haven't been played,written, written
written to Death
And they'll be wrote
(again, again)
till He is our
Bedfellow.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
1
i carry with me at all times a single fond memory of you ******* out venom from under my skin, right where you forgot you put it a very long time ago, —and beneath my eyes, as the vitreous shrinks and contracts, every sweep of your tongue becomes another dilution of the pigment of my iris, and every stem or stalk taken from the roof of your mouth, here is where hell begins—and i carry in me at all times your own discarded cells, and the stalactites of your bones beneath. here is where
2
you let me drown, which i will not blame you for, but i will blame you for the tears of my lovers all shed over not having a body to bury, or to dig back up, or to hold, simply because you couldn’t swim—but i couldn’t either and did i let that stop me? at least we know now which one of us is more so the coward, or i guess was
3
(…which was my worst fear if i am being honest, if i had ever told you: they say there are two deaths but i know there are three. the first is when you are buried; the second is when your name is said for the last time; and the third is when the worms give up because there is not enough left of you to bother their mouths with)
4
nothing i say makes any sense today
you took my tongue; give it back, give it back
5
it all comes back to an oral fixation, i know that, just wish i could tell you why
6
—no, i remember why now, it’s because
you kissed the soil of my grave when you thought i wasn’t looking but the joke is finally on you because decomposition had begun early—sickness is the only bedfellow we’ll ever have—and after that comes
7
return to start?
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
When you go past the end
Of your comfort zone the
Experience will be electric
In a surreal world where all
Certainties vanish and the
Strangest things happen.
When fear is mixed with passion
Hope is combined with opportunity
Love becomes a bedfellow with hate
Complexity is a companion of challenge
On this light-speed rollercoaster where
Desire drives you over the edge
To where you start to live your
Monochrome life in Technicolor.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
I view it blank unforgiving a monster once I beat like some dog now it only mocks what once was.
I never dreamed I would be on the outside looking in .
A begger to my own banquet.
I was the stud now I'm simply the joke the forgotten bedfellow to the nights when they thought passion could be consumed .
Now im a after thought to them a old soul and mistaken detour I knew them in ways they only regret and I just exist all the same.
Where did it leave like some drunken passenger who missed the train I sit unsure of the road I paved .
The page never needed you .
She will find passion in the depths of a strangers embrace .
Should I pull the trigger?
Why when she did so for me so long ago.
I breathe in the past it smells of decay and bad choices.
There's no road map to success
But there's a million ***** waiting For you to fail.
Life is a tragic comedy one where the punchlines stale as the air in this room
We will all be replaced sooner or later .
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
my mind is a simultaneous contradictions
never a clear black and white
wrong and right
passed the daylight my mental agony is back
vicious cycle of fight
who will win
unnecessary anxiety or liberation of heart
back and forth
filled with guilt, doubt, confussion
motive: platonic intimacy restoring my balance
is it though?
is it platonic?
feels downright impossible to argue if I do not feel anything
these rush of joy everytime you're near
how I don't want anyone else to ever touch you
tonight when the moon is up
we'd escape with eachother again
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Come, lie down with me.
Kiss me softly
hold my self
then you enter me
(and I in you)
but quickly, please
the dance, the dance
it frightens me
I'll stave you off
for fear of it.
but when you enter in...
you stay a while with me
and while you stay
I chance upon another world
the world i do love best.
but you are
the worst bedfellow
for in the morn
I'll always find you gone.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
it was winter when i wrote you ;
crags, rocks, trees, were all black
on white and ice --
ice,
it beat on my door --
slivered on the mattress,
sheets of it --
a bedfellow, willing,
eager.
when did the scorpion bring
warm coals to temper the night?
the howl of the moon,
the scorch of the sun --
inside was fire, gurgling.
it was froth and magma.
i heard the tempest, both sea and sky --
faith,
they called
it a rock.
a deep,
black,
rock
in ice.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
I write poems for no one to read,
and that’s how I know they’re true.
Here’s sadness for no one’s benefit
a determination to continue that
does not ring hollow in these empty halls.
Genuineness is the bedfellow of solitude.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
o how difficult the years
that weigh on
without you,
the endless nights
with emptiness
my solemn
singular
bedfellow.
what a treachery
is every sunrise
what a regret
is every breath.
and i am sure
you don't feel
this way.
i am sure you
are far away,
in some paradise,
and have found
someone better,
someone new,
someone to
not be alone with.
o how impossible
to explain
the pain of the left
to those who are
leaving.
i would trade
a thousand worlds
that i could
go back in time
and beg you,
don't go.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
To Poems Lost,
To you who sat on paper drenched
behind the shower curtain,
for I could not get the shampoo
and the soap out fast enough--
dry towels lingering in their mocking silence.
To Poems Lost,
To you who sat unbuckled
in the passenger seat
with the window rolled down,
your flowery head
sticking out catching the cool breeze
in the evening sky,
I, suddenly aware of dangers imminent,
reached with one hand to
hastily buckle you in
and alas--
I lunged,
hoping to pin you
to the upholstery;
you leaned farther and farther
out the window, 'til the current
grasped you by the throat
and ****** you into the night air--
away into oblivion.
I cursed and moan'd,
jabbing and grasping hopelessly at the space
that once entertained your angelic presence.
To Poems Lost,
Peeking slowly into my consciousness
mistaken for silly dreams,
I awoke in bed--dripping a cold sweat,
breathing heavily.
I laughed abruptly, lightly,
trusting my mind to remember your fleeting ghosts,
moments of serendipitous ecstasy,
a mild epiphany;
so I dared myself not to reach for my pencil
sitting eagerly atop my bedside dresser,
where the concerned blank page pleaded
with my muddied conscience.
Tired eyes had just as soon closed shut,
and I awaited you as my bedfellow yet again
to wake me up timely in dawn's breach of night.
And alas--
I woke up,
finding the covers next to me ruffled,
but the body that had authored such vexations
appearing to have slipped into the void.
Had you followed my childhood fears under the bed?
Did you fall with a thud to the stifling carpet,
where protruding claws raked you into the hungry abyss?
I squelch'd the urge to hang my head over the bedside and seek you.
In light's breach of slumber,
before the lids of my eyes peel'd back,
did you leap out into the Lovely
to be whisked away into the brisk morning air?
Either way, you are gone,
so I curse and moan,
clutching the lonely bed-sheets
that once wrapt your transient spirit.
I still wait, eagerly,
for your return,
my lovelies.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
Everyone is sleeping
No prying eyes or jealous minds
About to crack wise
About why you wait
Til the midnight hour approaches
To drop in with a line
Check up on an ex
Too far away to pose any real threat
Too good to let go and get on with forgetting
She's still here, still not sleeping through the night
Still sure what's a good time and what must be done
Are poor bedfellows indeed
And a bedfellow is all you seek
Though your precious new light of your life
Might wonder why she's still second on your mind
If she knew the words you send to the former her
Around midnight, when everyone's sleeping.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC