"candlesticks" poems
candlesticks caught up in your wristwatch grip bundled up burning chopsticks not frostbitten yet, flashlight to toes happy it still shows your glowing red interior
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Please help pray for Paris. I feel so helpless and sad tonight. I wish it wasn´t real.
Paris
Friday night in Budapest
Music echoing in a bar
A man and woman well dressed
Walking towards their car
Friday night in Paris
Sirens echoing in the street
Chaos rapidly embowering bliss
Ground shaking under running feet
Friday night in Oslo
Laughter and good wine
Tall candlesticks standing aglow
Faces losing track of time
Friday night in Paris
Laughter twisting into cries
Searching for those you miss
As black smoke fills the skies
Friday night in Berlin
Together watching a football game
Hoping that your team will win
Cheering with a poster of their name
Friday night in Paris
Blood on the big green field
Lying on the ground alive you wish
That it simply isn't real
Friday night in London
Going out with a friend
Hearing the ringing of big ben
Thinking of how much to spend
Friday night in Paris
Crowds shattered by gunshots and hate
On your knees filled with anguish
You loved, but now it is too late
Friday night in Rome
Midnight walks under the sky
Couples together, walking home
Others turning to say goodbye
Friday night in Paris
Hate took away the morning
No words can fix this
Or dry the tears of the mourning
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Bottom feeders flourish
When the economy's a bust
When bad times are the norm
And good times turn to dust
When neighborhoods go south it's sad
But a sign of their demise
Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up
Before your very eyes
When stores close down or move on out
After years in the same place
Their memory is a radar blip
They leave without a trace
But as fast as they lock up their doors
Another shop moves in
It's the local pawn shop dealer
He's a shark without a fin
Like dollar stores and boarded doors
The pawn shop shows the way
That business has moved on out
Or closed or moved away
They prey on peoples hardship
They broker deals without a care
They don't need to know your history
They just know that you're there
The street has three new pawn shops
Palaces of buy back stuff
It's bad when there is one around
But, three...well that's enough
One opened by the Jeweller
Two doors down across the street
Now he's buying up possessions
Of everyone he meets
Folks who purchased jewellery
From Old Cy at his old store
For each twenty of it's value
The pawn shop gives you four
Cy can't afford to buy back
He doesn't have much money left
And besides his store insurance
Doesn't cover much for theft
The people at the Pawn shops
Took jobs and live in town
They trained two counties over
They succeed when times are down
It's a sign of the recession
Downtown dies and fades away
And then the bottom feeders surface
Their the ones who're gonna stay
You can look in the shop windows
Know who bought what and from where
You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's
And you know who bought them there
The guitar that hangs beside them
That was pawned by Emma Rose
She needed money for the bills
When the fresh fish plant had closed
There's a snapshot of the township
Sitting inside on their walls
They pawn shop is successful
While the economy still falls
You can see a piece and start to cry
For you know just why it's there
There's no one here to help them
There's no jobs and it's not fair
They open up each morning
While the nights dregs still sleep outside
They have done two hours business
Before lights on at Cy's
It's a sad and constant story
Of just what a town's become
But when asked if they've been in there
The inhabitants go "mumb"
They never seem to close up
The town's never make it back
While most places lose money
Pawn shops make it by the sack
The bluesman has some stuff there
The bartender has some too
Even though her bar's still going
She did what she had to do
The street, it is it's own world
Jewelly shops, banks and bars
But inside the local pawn shops
Are hidden all the scars.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 7:54 PM UTC
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:
There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.
There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba. What a joke!
There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!
Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.
It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!
Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.
When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!
Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!
It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.
It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!
It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.
A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!
So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!
Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
The electricity
in that moment,
when your hand first
brushed past mine,
could have lit up New York City
for the night.
I could have lived in that moment.
Plugged in.
Turned on.
But, in the same way we got used to
light switches and indoor plumbing,
I got used to your touch.
What I wouldn't give
to go back to candlesticks and outhouses
for just one night
so that when you reach for my hand tomorrow,
I won't be jaded by the light that now seems
so perfectly ordinary.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
Call me by another name.
Call me waspish,
or boyish,
or fountain-mouthed.
Prate about the crooked,
curved curls of my red-ribbon tongue.
Whisper myths down spidered-ice hallways
about the melted wax love games
fixed between dust-dressed candlesticks,
and the unfaithful rumors
of wine-stained table cloths.
Call me by another name.
Call me button-eyed,
and hollow,
and brittle-garden crucified;
Bind my face with burlap
and replace my spine with
a wood-splintering post;
dry my veins gold
so that my flannel fetters in
the tornado-dry breath
of fraying hay.
I'll fight off autumn winds and
the gossip of crows.
Don't fuse my footsteps to the echos
of Lightning Bearers and Stilt-legged Shadows;
Fasten my shoelaces to the
anchor dreams of drowning cannonballs
where I will only spell stories
with the sharp skin of coral reefs.
Call me by another name.
Call me typewriter-toothed,
or backwash,
or eight-legged.
Just prescribe me a name
that I can live up to.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
I have wide hips, a wide waist.
chubby cheeks and
short legs
given to me
by my mother.
she is not a witch.
she has wrinkles, yes
but they do not define her
nor would she let them.
I have no interest in making friends with fish,
small birds,
candlesticks or clocks,
or rodents.
I need human contact to survive.
If you put me alone in a house in a forest,
I will not clean.
I will not wait to be saved.
I will not ask for your permission to go outside.
I will leave.
I do not need a prince to live happily ever after.
I have short bushy hair
and a ******
yes, it's there.
underneath my cotton underwear and long lace skirts
that no one is telling me to wear.
I have a sister.
I go to her for advice.
I look up to her and I talk to her about
Everything anything everything
I do not need a prince.
I look up to my mother.
She is not a source of fear,
she is a source of comfort
and relief.
what are We teaching our daughters?
these imaginary princesses
teach our babygirls
to have long eyelashes
to have two inch waists
long luscious hair
*** appeal
and if they don't,
they will never live happily ever after.
If I need all that to get one,
I do not want a prince.
I do not want to be anyone's
cinderella.
I will not chase after anyone
if they choose to leave.
I will weep into my sister and mother's shoulders
But that poor,
poor
princess
will always be chasing
squirrels
to talk to
and men
to be saved by.
When will we teach them to save themselves?
When will they teach themselves
that there is no such thing as perfect
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
Part 4
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!
But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.
First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.
With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.
Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!
She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!
She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!
She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.
The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.
She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.
Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!
The slingshot worked!
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy! I’ve never been this high!
She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!
So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.
She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
A subtle change of airs,
The fall to Earth.
A sweet chill to linger on fingertips.
Fresh roasting scents
Permeate the silence
To replace each passing conversation.
Finally.
The thousand dollar smiles
& whirl of diamond indifference
Fade to music from worlds
Whose language I cannot speak.
Blessed introversion.
It was never a business to be be forgotten.
As the sunsets draw short
So sheds cynicism
& the sickly copper taste of commodity.
Let me vanish into cashmere
& the beauty of written words,
Be carried away on the flicker of candlesticks.
Relax
Into the elegance of stoicism.
I am that I am.
A season unto myself,
Craving the solstice.
A peak of serenity in crisp autumn colors.
Reclaiming the safety of the night,
Mythology dances across the sky
& as the flames from the hearth
Warm my machine cold soul,
Passion burns through the tired facade.
Let me be drunk on these fallen leaves
& drift, thankfully
Into peace.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
we're tip tip tipping
tap tap tapping out a rhythm for our breath
sweet ladles laden lady leaden candles
sticks candlesticks
lime sweet ricky baby
rolling rolling heavy cajoling
you want to know you want to know
greens orange peach and parkas
time with only embers
smelling sweet of sand glass green
lightning what a pretty king
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
I'm not the girl you think I am
Not really, anyway
There's a lot more to me than the girl in Dr. Seuss pajama bottoms, shrinking beneath the expectations you have set for me
I wish I knew what your expectations are
But it's hard to reach for a bar you can't see
It's hard to mold myself into something that you will accept and place on the mantle of a fireplace so that when strangers come over you can point to me and say that you are proud
I'm not sure if you want candlesticks or a picture frame or a book full of wonderful accomplishments
I could be all of those things, if you wanted
I'm not the girl you think I am
Not really, anyway
I'm stronger than my trembling bottom lip and the tears that break through the walls of my heart sometimes
I wish you weren't so logical and demanding of evidence you can hold in your hands
Because in my mind there's a gold mine of things I am trying to become
And none of them can be deposited in an ATM or withdrawn from a checking account
I'm sorry that I'm not real enough for you
And I'm sorry that you won't step into my mind for a second
So I can show you
The girl behind the numbers
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Payed a visit to God's house today
Thirty feet high stained glass windows
Rows of hand carved mahogany pews
Vaulted arches reaching into the Heavens
Golden candlesticks and high alter
Who is He trying to impress?
Even the Joneses can't keep up with him.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Amorphous blobs of yellow and white
Fly by the candle sticks in the hall
Halls melt hourly when they meet light
Fire of the candles makes paint fall
The blue mixes with the yellow
They make a mellow green
The bowls holding the wax afloat
See the world through a cello screen
The man in the middle glares with watery
Eyes on fire in purple airs
All this time the song keeps playing
Endless, toneless, knocking
on, off, on, off
the music never stops
till the hall melts from the candlesticks in the bowls catching the wax through the cello screen with the green mellow light, but even the man in the middle with the flaming watery eyes cant stop the music from throbbing its beat, drilling into our ears, you can hear it can't you? I can see it, silly you
Until I see the blobs of yellow and white.
Good bye, I'll see you in the morning light.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
In the quiet of your home
in the corner of your room
in the rushing of the street
in the time you're on your own
when the stars light up like candlesticks
when the moon begins to pray
and the oceans hear you groan
in the time you're on your own.
When the milkman comes and the sun's not shone
but the night has packed its bags and gone
and the dew is you upon the floor
in the time you're on your own.
One small kiss can resonate,
make universes hold their
breaths and wait
and still we wait
in the time you're on your own.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/16/2018
The sun bows low,
putting out the candlesticks of time,
it decorates white altars,
therefore winter is already close.
Wieslaw Musialowski 15/10/2001
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 3:21 AM UTC
So MARY loved a little lamb—
Especially on her plate.
But watch out, Mary: too much lamb
Can make you overweight.
HUMPTY DUMPTY sat on the wall.
Learn from his mistake.
If you are not mindful, you
Could also fall and break.
A TISKET, a TASKET,
Forget about a basket.
Do what you are told
Or your folks will blow a gasket!
JACK SPRAT could eat no fat.
Too much fat could **** him.
But mounds of veggies on his plate
Certainly don't thrill him.
If MRS. SPRAT could eat no lean
And just the fatty parts,
Wasn’t her cholesterol level
Jumping off the charts?
MISTRESS MARY, quite contrary,
Brags about her garden,
Which, she adds, is quite unique.
**** Oops, beg your pardon.
Are silver bells and cockle shells
Much to brag about?
I guess they are more practical
When there is a drought.
JACK B. NIMBLE was pretty slick,
Although he was a nut.
Don’t play around with candlesticks,
Or you could burn your ****
EENY MEENY MINY MOE...
Invest your money and watch it grow.
It’s good to save and not to owe,
EENY MEENY MINY MOE...
GEORGIE PORGIE made the girls cry
Every time he kissed ‘em.
They didn’t like that chauvinist
And the way he dissed ‘em.
Did JACK AND JILL go up the hill
Really to get water?
What kind of H2O
Would make him swerve and totter?
If these days PETER put his wife
In a pumpkin shell,
He'd never hear the end of it;
Boy, she’d give him hell!
- by Bob B
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
This troublesome beauty
Lines the walls of my temple,
Dangles crystals and candlesticks along its mantles.
My thoughts pray at her altar,
They clench their fingers together in pure fascination, yearning
For a couple minutes more
Of that spiraling reality -
The sparks at the edge of my eyes draw
Me to peek behind the curtain of my essence.
I fall like powdered snow and gliding petals off
Their enchanted tower, having been
Plucked from the certainty of their being into
A tonic, gelid air.
My body contains a formless wonder
Made of mellowing spirit -
I unwind and differentiate
Into many limbs of being.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
I kissed her.
A blackness drained into,
settled within.
Now,
I shuffle
draped in
candlesticks and coffee
needing to purge--
and knowing
too well--
grace voids
my servant creator.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
There is a place I
knew once.
With jazz music playing
and handwritten scriptures
on the windows.
Every wall was a tapestry,
but the floor was never clean.
Flowers bloomed from the cacti
and books read themselves.
"Cast your fate to the wind"
It didn't have to make sense,
it only had to be real.
Candlesticks never burned
evenly
but everything was in sync.
Low lighting made for easier sight,
but only when the sun was in late bloom.
"Buy new dishwasher
or get old one repaired"
It didn't have to make sense,
it only had to be real.
I took to dancing in the kitchen
when I knew everyone was busy
burying their seeds.
Patches of paint in her eye,
they changed shape every new moon.
Place your broken down dreams
behind the garage,
you don't need them
anymore.
Somedays I slip into the stars and
swim in their forbidden pool.
It is a secret we share, a love
affair far too scandalous for print.
Every morning the rooster crowed,
but never at the same time.
"Don't get too close dear, the oven burns"
It never made sense,
but ever was it real.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
there is a cool fire in the heart of you
under the sands of grace
where the cacti dance with elephants
to songs of threes and two’s
I am candlesticks and moons
you are more than boys and cattle
I watched your smile paint stars
with envy
the greenest of any jungle I’ve seen
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
I collect words like fine antiques,
Admiring the way this ancient lexicon rolls off my tongue,
The same way I’d admire how crystal candlesticks glow in the sun.
I create sentences like painters create art,
each syllable delicately placed,
Much like each individual paint stroke in Monet’s Japanese gardens,
Admired but never truly understood.
I cherish books like passions held close to my heart,
Comparing the glide of page against page as they turn in excitement
To the soft-lighted kisses shared in quiet moments,
Loved and filling my heart with contentment.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
we don't live in times
likened to a nearby 1cm off
renaissance painters
with patrons as noble as the popes,
we live in times where
free art flows, free art as free
among starving people,
as free as sea water, as free
as candlesticks among electric
shrapnel sparks, in a time
when no bothersome brine
of full-time takes the telescope
to see more stars that are plentiful
already to eden's sacrifice of nakedness
(sign-of-the-cross missing crucifix blaspheme
all authority);
we live in times where no complete
artist exists, instead artists with
full-time jobs tying them down
to originally stated profession for a
date (lawyer, surgeon, chemist, etc.)
& **** art has become 2nd grade karaoke
if no worse hara-kiri would-be sway of
a forgotten decapitation - of a disembowel'ed satyr
when a martyr would do a due icon for the
urban and shrinking wheat field arable populace
kneeling;
in st. petersburg i was told to stand up
when listening to a choir,
once in catholic school i yawned during our father
and was held in detention for an hour,
then paddy came along and said: martin luther -
so i said sweden in suede and it became the origin
of quebec: came the rain of applause.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Why music is stilled?
Where are the candlesticks to illuminate the night?
The sky opens up like an ancient book of wisdom ...
The covers of the eagle's claws and elephant tusks ...
Empty shadows, strange languages ...
Who will set me back through wasted time ?
Who would dare?
Where are the other mortals?
Where are they buried?
Pointed spears spread along spruce branches ...
Soldiers- mummies marching through rocks ...
Where are funeral coffins and fair maidens?
Why did the steps stopped?
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC