"bedstead" poems
i
She isn't thy average
Typical being;
She sit's upon a loft
Only made for a queen.
ii
Her bedstead is mine
We shareth ourn pillow;
I've never been so happy
Her love, pure as a meadow.
iii
A battlement coordinates
Wherein we shalt be protected;
She's spiritually awoken me
Hari and his reyna, ressurected.
iv
I shalt beget her, from her painful sleep
Now she's awoken, her face none more weep's;
Other's shalt Bestir us, from what they can't get
Though we shalt prevail, with love, forgiveness, them to forget.
v
Brigandine silver, shalt dress me in battle
For If beast's cometh close to mine queen, their boot's shalt rattle;
A Gilbertese I wilt carry, known as a shark tooth weapon
Mine Filipino empress is mine all, no faltering, none question's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/Filipino rose......
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
Rigid spine,
a creeping spider shuffling
through
the mental aisles.
Sight aloft,
aghast, a ceiling.
Cast away in one’s own chamber.
Preacher’s preaches
drown in water, leagues
below my iron
bedstead.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
Rain pounding on the roof wakes one in slumber
A toss in the bed to grasp for warmth from the covers
Fire in the chest of longing fueled by memories strong
A ring hangs on the bedstead in reminder of a song
Memories of warmth sooth the fire give aid to sleep
A smile spreads across the face breathed by peace
Vacant place still in waiting to be filled by a touch
A simple remedy for the lover who is near not far
Letter’s lying on the floor from the previous day
A pen with paper waiting eagerly to send care far away
One more day with promises for the famished heart
A love so strong with busy hands for ones kept apart
Lover across the sea or land fighting for thy country
A hand is waiting a God is guiding for desire is of His making
One in waiting for the homeward message stand by proudly
A strength unknown is aiding the wait for one cared for fondly
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 5:29 PM UTC
The old iron bedstead makes a good bed at
the bottom of the white cottage garden,and
out from it sprouts,
stinging nettles and a solitary tiger lily,
a filly among the rough,
nature can be cold hearted and tough.
Nesting in an old tub underneath a mulberry bush,
a blackbird sings songs in the morning which longs
to be older,
and an old well now dry but once wished upon by
ladies in crinoline
sits and silently cries out its thirst.
This was the garden to be in the cottage where we
had such sadness and joy.
Many years pass and the footpath falls under the fast rolling weeds,
the cottage now empty is still and
surprisingly white as if
the passage of years has been a delight.
Strange though that I still go to meander,
pander to melancholy in the place where
we kissed under mistletoe
so long ago.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
The iron bedstead creaked and the buckets underneath the leaks up in the ceiling gave us a feeling, of being on a movie set,
the flicker of light from the candle,waxed magnificent across the film of grime,a window to another time,a line up in the make up shed,the freshly made up bed,everybody said,
'down in the Hacienda where the cockroaches defend ya, against the desert rats,where nocturnal bats then eat the desert rats,you'll feel at home,
No coffee bar,no public phone,no concierge,you're all alone and feeling tender and that is life down in the Hacienda.
We took a walk through tumbleweeds and in this town that leads us to despair,we found we did not care,we two, were already there,at the end,where cockroaches could not defend against the things that lived within,the sin that kept us pinned against the ropes,the hope we had against all hopes that somehow we'd escape,be free,could settle in obscurity.
This Hacienda is the place where you must meet your demons face to face,unearth the things you'd rather not,
down in the Hacienda is where we learnt a lot,stopped the rot,oiled the bed,noted what was said,
but it's hardly worth it going to, the Hacienda just to view,you have to go and do,to see and be the changes that are made,
and as the Hacienda fades into another scene and plays into another screen,I lean across to her to share a kiss.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
She waits behind the bedstead
as a young boy falls to dreams
Though he cannot see her
she keeps him safe from screams.
Her one and only purpose
to bring him, finally home
that one day, when his time comes
his heart won't stray or roam
And softly in a golden glow
old eyes will see her there
a weathered hand placed inside hers
he leaves without a care.
Behind him on the bed
an old man lies in state
as a young heart travels with her,
his Angel, who did wait.
Lin Cava©
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
she plays cat's side
i of the mouse
there ain't a place to hide
in my small house!
knows she the places
she can hunt me
knows all the traces
of where to find me!
she knows where to look
easily can guess
my favorite nook
below staircase!
it isn't hard to seek
knows where to raid
dimly lit attic
below bedstead!
merrily play in bliss
in the small house
end the game with kiss
the cat and the mouse!
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
5 a.m. had surfaced
Weary I ascended from my bedstead
Keen I rose the first of many cancer sticks
to the sleek rift of my lips
Oh, how the flavor of fresh, young smoke
Knocked at the base of my esophagus
Caressing my uvula with infinitely
Unfathomable mountains of beauty
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Lovers' position ...
for ever kind thing...
there is a position...
that human adores ...
and loves ...
and longs ...
to live their desires with ...
and this position ...
that i desire and adore ...
to have with you ...
every time that we meet ...
at every night ...
into our crazy bedstead ...
while we ready both ...
to get our love ...
by hearts and souls ...
and a crazy madly minds ...
to do our lovely positions ...
that we love and seek for ...
what i desire for ...
desire your body all ...
with ever part ...
desire to make you ...
crazy i am ...
with great ever position ...
that created only by lovers ...
and only for lovers ...
to take us both ...
to another world ...
while we tasting ...
and smelling one to the other ...
by the great making ...
which it called ...
sixty-nine position ...
the position ...
that i ever love ...
yes ...
sweet angel mine ...
come let' s feel ...
what we are in ...
hazem al ...
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 1:07 AM UTC
#The museum was deserted at mid-noon
The summer sun more than his taste for history
Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects.
His eyes caught the two warnings
Photography prohibited and
Don’t touch objects
He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed
Solid 18th century teakwood
Carrying stains of his passions on white linen
Imprinted with the motions of his emotions
*There he saw the ruler on the bedstead
With tender touch of fingers on his head
One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand*
His hand involuntarily touched the wood
A small chunk fell into his hand
And without a second thought
In a forbidden impulse
He shoved it inside his pocket
He came out from the musty smell into the sun
A chip of Dupleix in his pocket
His passion’s outlet
Escapes from the ravages of war
To find solace
From the tender hands around him
Bought by force of wealth
Far far away from home.
Away from colonial past he breathed deep
The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!#
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
He likes pretty blondes with painted faces.
Long legs, open purses.
Smiles wide, teeth a little like diamante.
Superficial features, almost made of wax.
Melting in the summer's heat
Hot bath makes her glisten.
Friends told her but, she wouldn't listen.
He's just a user, an abuser.
An amuser, who plays with himself regularly.
He'll scribble his name on your bedroom wall.
Reminds you, he's been there before.
Keeps a tally graph, inside his bedroom drawer.
He'll etch his name in scented blood upon your bedstead.
While you're playing with his head.
He'll play with yours as well instead.
In and out of opening doors.
Never ending flirting circles.
Wanted yet another lover, found a blonde.
Another one with a melting face, made out of wax.
You love him, you pay.
That's the only way.
For in the coldest light of day, the plain girl with the auburn hair skin one lovely gets his care and makes his day.
She's another sucker.
Being played as always, by her ever loving leech.
(c)Livvi
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
I did it momma, I stole the candy bar
from your bedstead, so let my brothers and sisters go,
yes, I am the youngest, and I give myself up
don't whup them no more
I eat it and proof, is in the pudding
for I found out it was ex-lax,
so whip me all you want.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
The boogey man is not a man,
But a monstrous cavity in the minds of the men.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What deamon, boggle, hobgoblin the bedstead-dark holds?
Eyes are sticked on the darkness,
Noble nowhere: the wide pupil is seeing far less,
While the truth is under your nose:
Thousand lies' eyes lie upon you that no one knows now.
Spiders? Rat snakes? What's hidden there?
No one knows and no one cares by-chance you barely dare;
It's you and your mind - your demons
Who barely care - its self-destruction deepens itself.
Dark room, wardrobe and under-bed;
Darkness dwells in none of among them, but in your head.
Empty-headed pics of crassness,
Made by no boogey, but an ignorant's recklessness.
Put away your holy water;
No need for illusive Jinn-conjurer Gin-tonics.
Darkness knows one weapon: homage;
Nightmares can be killed only through the light of knowledge.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What morbid poison, what fearful drug your brain cells hold?
Embrace no torch, no crucifix;
The thirst of knowledge dries out every grim-naughty pics.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:52 AM UTC
Every waking hour
and every living moment
suspended in reality
is the truest nightmare
for I am now awake
and the dream is not over
the ceiling is a flash of white
the outside world a breathless scream
there is no truth to it
yet it comes back to haunt me
in a house that is not my home
in the days and years
with every sun and moon
I have done everything
faced the dark side
burned every bridge
there is no rhyme or reason
a simple melody
the littlest things to numb the pain
and so it persists still
gone but not forgotten
twisted in its nature
a personal purgatory of sorts
a hand clenched ever so tightly
around my throat
or perhaps it is only
a faceless demon
crawling in my skin
stalling my every move
a devil on my shoulder
and ironically so
it feels right
for I am not the hero of this story
never have been
the life as I know it
has never been kind
in the desire to take
what could never be mine
an ordinary life
an easy way out
so instead I took lives for myself
for money
for prestige
for infamy
and I deserve every nightmare
as there is no way out at all
I cannot take it back
or start all over
it is too late
I’ve come too far now
I say so to myself
a chaotic mantra
echoing within these empty walls
so why am I trembling?
I have no fear
and I have no faith
I have faced death
but I will not go anywhere
how could I believe in
the faintest sight of Heaven
if life put me through Hell?
The merciful one cannot exist
for my only companions
are the demons from the past
and yet
there is fight left in me
I will not bury myself
in the guilt and shame
this bedstead is not
my tombstone
or my legacy
I am still alive
I will step out into the world
and dip my toes in the sunshine
I will not give up
not ever
not now.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
You stand against your white
metal bedstead bundled up
in a strait jacket like a neat
parcel awaiting delivery.
Your hands around your
back, out of the way like
exiled rebels. From the
barred window light
comes in, light from a
world out there, out
there where you were
once, once upon a time,
time past and time... bird
sings, can't see it, but it's
there, singing, bringing
sound, nature sounds,
unlike the bedlam noise
that screams outside, screams,
shouts, cries and moans.
Nurses bellowing names,
as if names meant anything
anymore. Any more? yes
please if you have any spare:
a voice calls out from some
place in the ward. You want
out out of this hell hole,
this asylum, this hospital
for the mentally INSANE.
You remember that written
on the gates the day they
brought you. You, your mind
in a mess, mess of memories,
memories of hits, slaps, *****
head slams and finger feels.
Nurse enters and gazes at you:
cooled down now? Ain't going
to flip out again? You stare at
her, the fat ***** the uniformed
cow. Well? Have you? You
could have her, could take her
out if you weren't bundled up,
quite harmless and sick silent.
The nurse has a wart on her
chin, her eyes piggy eyes.
Ain’t you going to answer?
You smile and nod your head.
That sweet smile of yours
could get men to do things,
if you wanted to, but you
didn't want to do what the
sick ***** wanted you to do.
Piggy nurse unstraps you
slowly, you sense that
freedom, pins and needles,
and able to breathe free.
Be on your best behaviour,
nurse says, and walks off,
the lard **** swaying goes.
You will have her one day,
stuff her like a screaming
fat pig being slowly stuffed.
You smile your smile.
There, there, be better,
be better, in a while.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
good, our first catch of the day has shined away
awoken on a dreamy bedstead made of fluffy plume
feeling your delicate body weaving softly with mine
touching your sensitive breaths with my face
pushing your lips to mine and feeling your taste
life of lovers, dreamers of forsaken history
so meek, so mellow, you are my special mistress
memories, like scars, will never fade away
so i'm here, sitting alone, but don't worry
i'm feeling fine, the heart is bandaged gently
like your soul, it mayhaps will never be healed
but you gave me the memories i cannot forget
and i want to thank you, even if you hate me
you can tell me about that long dark path home
and lead me somewhere else where i'll wander
in research of your heart, of previous you
for the lady that has pierced my heart with arrow
for the lady that made me realise what real love is
and for you, you helped me find the right path
i sat silently, smiling to myself, drinking last bit of my wine
the memories came back but i don't regret the choices anymore
i think you and i will do better, separated, aloof from each other
i still love you but i hope you will find the right person now
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
I thought you were gone
Closer than the most distant star yet
Further than any constellation
Lost in space, floating
Somewhere along the bedstead.
But then
I realised that it was not disinterest
Because even though loving you was a frozen lake
Melted awake with every touch of your fingertips
To you, loving me was the sight of sea
In which just being side by side was as natural as breathing
Or the waves gently washing ashore.
I will be your calm before the storm
The quiet moment before the waves come crashing down
Tearing apart our illusions of the peace
And the sunshine on ice.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:13 AM UTC
Susie snuggles
up to close to Polly
in the large iron bedstead,
places her cheek
against Polly's back,
her hands wrapped around
Polly's waist.
Polly sleeps;
a long day behind,
a long day ahead.
The cold night air in the attic,
makes Susie snuggle
closer still to Polly.
She listens;
hears the other maid's breathing;
she wants to kiss her,
but dares not.
She puts her lips close
to Polly's back
and pretends a kiss.
She wants a real kiss,
to kiss the lips
and hold close
as close can be,
but she dare not:
Polly would smack
her face or worse.
She had watched
Polly undress for bed;
it had made her day
that removing of clothing,
each time a little more
sight of flesh.
Some mornings(at 5am)
she pretends sleep,
watching Polly undress,
washing naked
with cold water
from the enamel bowl,
watching through
the slits of her eyes,
but says nothing
just a mouthful lies.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
wander I will
eyes to a northern star
alone, again
nine days gone of heaven's gift
a rift in the new
curtains.... show
me time, make a place
where the moon
graces my face
where a slice of life may be eternity-
a day....like her cries in the
dark nights
bothered flames of
bedstead candle
wicks
like the breeze of a day coming
cold and shallow
as my world
come Saturday
afternoon
shall make lights grow dim
but hearts fire grow
in all distance
in memories
glance
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC