"chalet" poems
Vines crawling
on the old mottled wall
fog bypassing
the fence
enveloping the entire
chalet
the mystic sky over the castle
a lightning awakening
the gloomy valley
ghosts and goblins floating
around
extinguishing white candles
a witch with a broom
the silver haired wizard in a black hat
standing in the darkness of spells
the enchanted princess sleeping
in the black chalet
prince charming leading a team of
knights
sinister roses blooming quietly
spitting murky fog
tongues of flames light up the dark tunnel
the prince kills the bloodthirsty bats witches and
a clan of phantoms
the prince kisses to wake the princess who’s been asleep
for a millenium.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”
Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”
Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:
“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”
Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”
Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”
At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles
It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
Straight lines bound the edges,
while it became necessary to spend
the anchor of time lost in the twisting
patterns slowly darkening to supply
the molecules which provided scenery.
The character was divided
between a wolf and the hiker towering
at the pinnacle of the hill to gaze above
the head of the beast across to the vista
of the trail. Roses bloomed, and the ink
was done, to dry while color trickled
in a world comprised through streams
of shivering light reflected from
the mountain, a flower raised by
the frivolous event of cataclysmic times;
the hatchet carved its cliffs to make
a face of empty granite and the soul of
the rock. The delay created a great offer,
considered by erosion, but the hesitation
defied the smoothing influence of climates
and their ages. The rise killed the
enthusiasms of the hiking spirit,
reconstituting the problem, and
the messenger of hilarity was never less
welcome than when enthusiastic about the
confusion of lost victims. Always a few
of these were
in the scenes along the shimmering trails
with their names that changed at inconvenient
turning points until travelers were anxious
to go through the door into the chalet with its
green carpet of moss. The discount welcomed
them, inside, yet there was no great pile
of money and nothing was purchased. Instead,
after the warmth set in, showing determination,
the man with the pack returned to life on
the wild edge of the land. After a command to
the sharp creature that had been pacified by the
impressive displays of civilization, the walker
began to trek, and the wandering dog felt self
respect, the beginning of membership. So, they
belonged to the range, and the traders had plans
to provision them by means of a system of values
arrived to demonstrate available necessities and
equities conceived in the course of bargaining.
This general aspiration was accompanied by the
taciturn response thought to be more pleasant
than the argument and ill will. Prosperity had
been created by serving fate and nature rather
than by transferring property to a singular pit.
The result was an expectation of good deals and
reliable assistance.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
A girl sat in class
and took notes automatically/mechanically
while her imagination travelled
to a remote chalet where a dog
lived alone.
It didn't have a name or parent
and no one judged it.
It didn't even question its freedom.
Anyway, the girl went back home
and did her homework.
She was locked inside a cage
with a lot of other people who wouldn't notice.
The girl grows older and dies.
I hope she's finally free.
-- Eleanor
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
dinners at swiss chalet,
luxury before i knew luxury,
and though i've advanced
in diet since, nothing has
tasted better than
hot fudge sundae
mixed with parent smiles,
washed down with
Shirley Temples.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random ***********
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
I’d like a man who appreciates me.
Say “Hi beautiful!” every morning,
And bring me coffee and croissants,
As we watch the new day dawning.
I’d like a man who has a high powered job.
His office window an amazing view,
His grandparents own a seaside chalet
He says he’ll take me to.
I’d like a man with an amazing body,
But he would not know that.
He’d garden with his shirt off – hanging up -
While wearing a cowboy hat.
I’d like a man who liked my friends,
And charmed them all with smiles.
And tell them how, with his arm round mine,
We dance on kitchen tiles.
I’d like a man who understood,
One does not rev his car.
He’ll take me sailing in the summer ,
No bounds to say how far.
He’s go to be able to fly as well.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
In the once noble house,
almost all is taken except
The walls, the lath, now held on
by a cleat of wood and lace
that redeems the letcher,
denizen of Sussex wetlands.
Of late the chalet is latched
only by hate, and the letch
chats with outlaws in the storm's eclat
of thunder far off.
No knights or maidens remain,
nor any ruler of demesne
and the treasure is born
off to other kingdoms.
The well is dry and
fields are bare.
And in the end, all depart.
leaving doors open to the wind
and gate down to the woods.
And broken the way
down to the sea.
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
Here come
pairs of legs
riddled with cellulite
accents
stuff the air
Neuwcassul
Burmingum
stores reek
of cheap tat
bargain last-few-quid items
Irish music
no-one gives a jig about
Mr. Whippy's
for sale every seven/six
make that five cafés
women packed
like bubblewrap
into denim shorts
middle-aged men
plagued with tattoos
Irn Bru tans
back at the chalet
kids thwack
plastic *****
with plastic racquets
next-door neighbours
puff on their nineteenth
*** before midday
come night
karaoke floods towards us
like a murky tsunami
don't stop believin'
hold on to that feelin'
but the girl
in the museum
had a ponytail
another one
dipped in gold
like a fancy chess piece
and I walk around
in a Norwich shirt
lick sea-breeze
and know
this isn't
home
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
My spirit yearns to
Leave this godforsaken
City for good
To build a couzy chalet
Hidden somewhere
Amidst the alps
And to watch the
Seasons change while
Playing guitar on the porch
With my dogs at my feet
So why does a quiet life
Keeps getting away from me?
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 9:25 AM UTC
At St John's church in the year of 1843
The priest Father O'Day couldn't rise off of his knees
The congregation did attempt to stand the man upright
Yet he'd not be relieved of this his stuck plight
Some in the congregation checked out in the back
Hoping against all hope that it wasn't that
But the sacramental wine was filled up to the brim
Which had them wonder further as to what was wrong with him
Like the sculpture of Mary Magdalene his position was set
Of the rigid state he'd never ever forget
All the alter boys offered prayers for a solution
Being quite disturbed by O'Day's poor kneeling elocution
Was this a trance or was he deep in prayer
Given over to the circumstance did it really matter
They called up Mother Superior to ask of her advice
As it was fish Friday, she said some other time
From out of the fathers prayer book a letter it did drop
The contents in it was not news that he could readily cop
A decrease in his annual stipend had on this day been proposed
On reading about it his knees quickly became indisposed
As he wondered how he would pay for his chalet in France
Or the expensive clothes he liked to wear to the local dance
Along with his butlers and half a dozen maids
In all of his high living never once did he think to save
A litany of poor monetary decisions had brought O'Day to his knees
No divine intervention would undo his futile freeze
Coveting the high-life on a paltry priestly wage
Would awaken him to a lesson of that more like a sage
Instead of falling into all man's sinful desires
He should have first consulted with his Higher Power
We all see it so plainly there's not much you can say
Except another valuable lesson learned from Father O'day
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
Life is
like a painting
in it
there’s always
a quest for the moon
hung aloft
and the sempiternal secret
of the sun
there’s always
unchained serenity
the axiom of
the harmony of nature
there are always
lofty mountains
close to heavens
not so far away
a twisty river
peregrinating
not a mirage
a boat carrying
dreams of a millenium
leisurely smokes curling
atop a chalet
birds flying
into the sky of liberty
fish swimming
toward the horizon
of ecstasy
the baby wind
asleep amidst a copse of trees
alive in this
simple peaceful
idyllic painting.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
By Ron Koertge
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.
It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.
Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.
Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.
Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.
You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."
Then start again.
from Fever, 2006
Red Hen Press
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
What I Want
I want to be
a breath eternized,
a harmonious duel
of notes colliding;
a deep hum like rain pounding on your roof.
I want to be
your familial need,
your strong cavalier,
and yet impuissant without caring.
I want to be
the sound of your seascape and
the harrowing experience
that brings your feet slapping again on my floor;
the sublimation that makes
me your chéri once again.
I want to be your car whizzing
through the slush on my road,
and your air as you breathe in slumber.
I want to be your remembrance.
But this? This is just doggerel my love,
empty tapping on a darkened window.
The Dance…
The sound of harmonizing guitars fills my dreams,
a sound to eternize in my memory.
Their duel of fancy is poetry sounded
in the chalet of pressing bodies.
Feet slap the floor to the sound,
in the familial dance of human experience.
The murmer of voices are impuissant when faced
with the strength of those strumming guitars.
Cars whizzing through the slush
announce the departure of
those with faces trapped in a cavalier facade.
For the rest,
the music sublimates the reason of the mind,
driving out thought like the sound of breathing in the night.
The doggerel of the world is left at the door
and the snuffy exterior of life is quickly forgotten.
Only the music remains,
its meaning an elusive longing,
and the desire to dance until the sun
drives out the shadows.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I just remembered one of our first conversations about relationships.
We were on the treeline ski lift and had just passed the chalet bar. I had just finished telling you about how I had broken up with everyone in relationships. Somewhat in a braggy way - like the “I don’t get dumped I dump thing.” (Gross and cringe looking back.)
You responded with “Well that’s not a good thing.”
And I started justifying it and how I struggle with relationships telling you, I just always feel like I’m losing something in a relationship- reducing myself or just possibilities of the future. Like I’m losing freedom. Losing potential.
You responded again “Well that’s also not a good thing.”
Which of course I agreed was bad but had no hope on fixing.
You continued, “A good relationship should feel expansive, not contracting, that just means you have the wrong person.”
Which, I also knew people in healthy relationships feel like it is additive, not subtractive but I didn’t know if that could ever be me. If I’d ever feel like if I wasn’t settling or compromising in one way or another.
I think that’s one of the first ways I realized I was in love with you. I imagined our life together, growing together, and I didn’t feel like I would have to fit myself in a box. It felt like you could take all of the possibilities of me. It felt like the world would get bigger.
Sep 10, 2024
Sep 10, 2024 at 12:15 AM UTC
Within the warmth
Of our snow covered chalet
Driven by my passion
I sat playing guitar all day
I played from my heart
With all of my soul
Harmonic balance
As the creativity flowed
The perfect palm mute
Sound reverberating by design
All my poetic passion
Came to life
Achieving Nirvana
The tears filled my eyes
I played a guitar solo
That caressed my mind
Pain put to sound
No one else around
Except my girlfriend
Playing with her device
Not even a "that sounds nice"
And so I played
To the light of day
To the nagging cold
That's come my way...
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 8:44 AM UTC
in the mountains of switzerland i met a fair young maid
she wore a flowered dress hair all done in braid
she just love to yodel to a yodelling song
on the mountain side. she yodelled all day long.
people came from miles to hear her mountain sound
people they would gather for many miles around
with a yodel yodel de and a yodel yodel lay
swiss maid could be heard from many miles away.
i fell in love with her and her yodel sound
the girl i always wanted now at last i found
we settled down togther in a swiss chalet
now i can hear yodel every single day.
when we have our children they will yodel too
high up in the mountains like mother used to do
with there yodel lodel de yodel yodel lay
as people gather round from many miles away
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Baby it's so cold outside, why don't I have my coat
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 12:08 AM UTC