"clawfoot" poems - Hello Poetry

red tile roof ... whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle , fridge full 'f 1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza -- clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture) $1000/week: (i could live on that) lucky strike spirals in spanish summer, bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada. afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines) spend 75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin ) & typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire) flamenco on a record player back in the house one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there still as death) as she gets into the jacuzzi. & spend 75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand up skirt of my carmen-du-jour. climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves. (feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)

0

Jul 15, 2012

Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC

alloyddavies

dream 162 / tres meses

red tile roof ... whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle , fridge full 'f 1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza -- clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture) $1000/week: (i could live on that) lucky strike spirals in spanish summer, bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada. afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines) spend 75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin ) & typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire) flamenco on a record player back in the house one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there still as death) as she gets into the jacuzzi. & spend 75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand up skirt of my carmen-du-jour. climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves. (feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)

25

The lighthouse keeper and his son, one day Were out on the rocks, by a blue-water bay As the sea, their bare feet was laving, They saw a mermaid, they first thought was bathing; With long dark hair and eyes of green; Like the mist of a loch, that sings. She was struggling and sick, in the foamy sea So they took her to the lighthouse, above the lea. She begged and pleaded, to die in the sea; But there in the lighthouse, she seemed fated to be. A clawfoot bathtub became her home, And there she stayed, never to roam. Some children taught her some words and rhymes. To help her to pass all the weary time. The lighthouse keeper thought she was his own, Though from the sea, she was merely loaned. Sometimes a midnight, would find him there Combing her damp and tangled hair. In her long confinement, he was the one Kept her sane, since she could not run. They had long discussions until daybreak, Entirely by looks and gestures they'd make; She taught him secrets no man had ever heard; How she could still the sea, with inaudible word And how she could tell by the look of the moon If spring would come early, or winter too soon. And how the waves, did murmur below If the weather be rough, or the hard winds blow. How she'd loved and lost one merman that Had gotten too close, to a fisherman's net. They'd had a child, by the madman's reef; Was eaten by sharks, and how they'd grieved. He fancied that someday, he'd like a kiss, For kissing a mermaid, seemed like rare bliss But something forebade him, to come that near; So he was content, just stroking her hair. One day he found her, dead in her tub; Her heart had broken, all for his love. No mermaid can tell human men of her heart, Or else they'll spend their lives far apart, It's a law of the sea, older than time; So this be the end, of the mermaid rhyme.

0

Sep 21, 2010

Sep 21, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC

patti-masterman-heterodynemind

The Rhyme of the Mermaid

The lighthouse keeper and his son, one day Were out on the rocks, by a blue-water bay As the sea, their bare feet was laving, They saw a mermaid, they first thought was bathing; With long dark hair and eyes of green; Like the mist of a loch, that sings. She was struggling and sick, in the foamy sea So they took her to the lighthouse, above the lea. She begged and pleaded, to die in the sea; But there in the lighthouse, she seemed fated to be. A clawfoot bathtub became her home, And there she stayed, never to roam. Some children taught her some words and rhymes. To help her to pass all the weary time. The lighthouse keeper thought she was his own, Though from the sea, she was merely loaned. Sometimes a midnight, would find him there Combing her damp and tangled hair. In her long confinement, he was the one Kept her sane, since she could not run. They had long discussions until daybreak, Entirely by looks and gestures they'd make; She taught him secrets no man had ever heard; How she could still the sea, with inaudible word And how she could tell by the look of the moon If spring would come early, or winter too soon. And how the waves, did murmur below If the weather be rough, or the hard winds blow. How she'd loved and lost one merman that Had gotten too close, to a fisherman's net. They'd had a child, by the madman's reef; Was eaten by sharks, and how they'd grieved. He fancied that someday, he'd like a kiss, For kissing a mermaid, seemed like rare bliss But something forebade him, to come that near; So he was content, just stroking her hair. One day he found her, dead in her tub; Her heart had broken, all for his love. No mermaid can tell human men of her heart, Or else they'll spend their lives far apart, It's a law of the sea, older than time; So this be the end, of the mermaid rhyme.

42

Amidst my self-sinkin' a'droppin' down into involuntary shunts you note: *"Pensive, pensive– He is always so pensive. He smokes another cigarette and takes another bath."* Amidst crossin' o'clawfeet in clawfoot tubs you repeat: *"Check the water for them words you were park-wanderin' a'lookin' for while I was out all last night a'lookin' only for you."* And as I look, I do only, for you. *"Sometimes – sometimes I am so in love with you, it's surrealism. My heart's breaking from the weight, from my romanticism, a castaway'd castawayer a'makin' memoirs in the morning. I'm a beach-combing romantic; I'll fall out of love by the morning."* Ponderin' a'wanderin' takes me back to the Fall with leaves, fallen too; to our breaking point, pointing skywards in the off-season kite flying season. I kiss the wind washing over my face and curse all the dumb, **** reasons that I never did kiss you; I never meant to kiss you. I do only, for you. *"Pensive, dear pensive, you do this for me: Go ponderin' for months– O' sonderin' on o'er me."*

0

Dec 10, 2013

Dec 10, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC

brad-lambert

Pensive

Amidst my self-sinkin' a'droppin' down into involuntary shunts you note: *"Pensive, pensive– He is always so pensive. He smokes another cigarette and takes another bath."* Amidst crossin' o'clawfeet in clawfoot tubs you repeat: *"Check the water for them words you were park-wanderin' a'lookin' for while I was out all last night a'lookin' only for you."* And as I look, I do only, for you. *"Sometimes – sometimes I am so in love with you, it's surrealism. My heart's breaking from the weight, from my romanticism, a castaway'd castawayer a'makin' memoirs in the morning. I'm a beach-combing romantic; I'll fall out of love by the morning."* Ponderin' a'wanderin' takes me back to the Fall with leaves, fallen too; to our breaking point, pointing skywards in the off-season kite flying season. I kiss the wind washing over my face and curse all the dumb, **** reasons that I never did kiss you; I never meant to kiss you. I do only, for you. *"Pensive, dear pensive, you do this for me: Go ponderin' for months– O' sonderin' on o'er me."*

26

unnamed emotion slips: over my head like tepid bathwater in a clawfoot tub coil into dimly lit memories;vintage motifs where the glamour is all but tarnished lips once stained smoothred are cracked;withered not fit for a kiss nor a memoir of the evening submerged beneath heavylight weight of regrets?no. lack of: a detached nostalgia featuring no judgement, only the autumn wisps of when you felt anything at all.

0

Feb 11, 2011

Feb 11, 2011 at 7:39 PM UTC

kiagen-mcginnis

detached nostalgia

unnamed emotion slips: over my head like tepid bathwater in a clawfoot tub coil into dimly lit memories;vintage motifs where the glamour is all but tarnished lips once stained smoothred are cracked;withered not fit for a kiss nor a memoir of the evening submerged beneath heavylight weight of regrets?no. lack of: a detached nostalgia featuring no judgement, only the autumn wisps of when you felt anything at all.

17

Part I – 10039 330th Street West I used to live in a haunted house. Everything about the building felt wrong: Creaking staircase, Crumbling basement walls, Dark side door, Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. When I lived in the haunted house I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school. I hated my room, I hated the dining room, I hated the basement. I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. Bad things happened in the haunted house. It didn’t matter what the time of day was. Growling at night from the dining room, Singing in the morning from the basement, Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom. Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. I know that the house was haunted Because someone was always with me when these things happened. My stepbrother who also heard the growling, My stepsister who also heard the singing, And all of us who heard the tapping. I know that these happened Because the house was haunted. Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue I used to live in a haunted house. Everything about the building felt wrong: My bad report cards in the recycling, The constant panic in my stomach, Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor, My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away. When I lived in the haunted house I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college. I hated the living room, I hated the kitchen, I hated the hallway. Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away. Bad things happened in the haunted house. It didn’t matter what the time of day was. Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch, Screaming outside during the day from the yard, Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere. I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away. I can’t know that the house was haunted Because nobody was with me when these things happened. I was alone with the whistling, I was alone with the screaming, I was alone with the whispering. I can’t know these happened Because it’s my head that’s haunted.

0

Sep 28, 2018

Sep 28, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC

robbie-1

Haunted Houses

Part I – 10039 330th Street West I used to live in a haunted house. Everything about the building felt wrong: Creaking staircase, Crumbling basement walls, Dark side door, Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. When I lived in the haunted house I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school. I hated my room, I hated the dining room, I hated the basement. I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. Bad things happened in the haunted house. It didn’t matter what the time of day was. Growling at night from the dining room, Singing in the morning from the basement, Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom. Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub. I know that the house was haunted Because someone was always with me when these things happened. My stepbrother who also heard the growling, My stepsister who also heard the singing, And all of us who heard the tapping. I know that these happened Because the house was haunted. Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue I used to live in a haunted house. Everything about the building felt wrong: My bad report cards in the recycling, The constant panic in my stomach, Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor, My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away. When I lived in the haunted house I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college. I hated the living room, I hated the kitchen, I hated the hallway. Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away. Bad things happened in the haunted house. It didn’t matter what the time of day was. Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch, Screaming outside during the day from the yard, Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere. I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away. I can’t know that the house was haunted Because nobody was with me when these things happened. I was alone with the whistling, I was alone with the screaming, I was alone with the whispering. I can’t know these happened Because it’s my head that’s haunted.

52

the water in the Clawfoot bathtub is red and full of blood and petals cut like knives in the water it’s sunny light filters through the curtains filters through blood draining floral bedspread and okra on a paper plate cabernet the wooden floor creaks enter you the dusk in the living room bounces off walls this is the house I built this is forever crumbling walls and flames welcome home

0

Dec 31, 2015

Dec 31, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC

madelines

domus aurea

the water in the Clawfoot bathtub is red and full of blood and petals cut like knives in the water it’s sunny light filters through the curtains filters through blood draining floral bedspread and okra on a paper plate cabernet the wooden floor creaks enter you the dusk in the living room bounces off walls this is the house I built this is forever crumbling walls and flames welcome home

20

This city has torn me to pieces and scattered the unwanted bits through these cobblestone streets. Through 3 a.m. deserted corridors and starless skies, through the litter and muck along the banks of its timeless raging river. A haunting memory is left behind a locked bathroom door in a new friends apartment on Lyon St. across from the empty museum. The rumors of attempted suicide still linger in the air. The shell of a young man is found in the basement of a crumbling house on Veto St. Swept beneath the rug under a pile of beer bottles and empty fifths. A scarred outer layer of skin is found in the drain of a ***** clawfoot bathtub, in a dark studio apartment on the corner of Douglas and National. Along with a well read copy of Bukowski’s Women and a bowl of maggot infested rice. A heart, freezer burned and half thawed, is found on the counter in a split level apartment on Lydia St., just before the hill. As for the rest of me, that I’ll leave for us to find. Maybe somewhere on the back roads from there to here, in the hazy twilight fit for discovery.

0

Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC

dylan-baker

The Pieces Lost

This city has torn me to pieces and scattered the unwanted bits through these cobblestone streets. Through 3 a.m. deserted corridors and starless skies, through the litter and muck along the banks of its timeless raging river. A haunting memory is left behind a locked bathroom door in a new friends apartment on Lyon St. across from the empty museum. The rumors of attempted suicide still linger in the air. The shell of a young man is found in the basement of a crumbling house on Veto St. Swept beneath the rug under a pile of beer bottles and empty fifths. A scarred outer layer of skin is found in the drain of a ***** clawfoot bathtub, in a dark studio apartment on the corner of Douglas and National. Along with a well read copy of Bukowski’s Women and a bowl of maggot infested rice. A heart, freezer burned and half thawed, is found on the counter in a split level apartment on Lydia St., just before the hill. As for the rest of me, that I’ll leave for us to find. Maybe somewhere on the back roads from there to here, in the hazy twilight fit for discovery.

39

tips of my toes pressed own to the chill of ceramic, i sit, shoulders barely peaking out from the thin film of what hours ago were bubbles, scared to drain the tub because right now, i feel so ******* small– small enough to circle the drain and slip right through the holes in the grate

0

Apr 11, 2016

Apr 11, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC

mollie-grant

clawfoot clinic

tips of my toes pressed own to the chill of ceramic, i sit, shoulders barely peaking out from the thin film of what hours ago were bubbles, scared to drain the tub because right now, i feel so ******* small– small enough to circle the drain and slip right through the holes in the grate

18

that summer I tasted music for the first time I loved a boy who said my knees knocked together like commuters during rush hour in his eyes were waves against Barceloneta and he slid lyrics in between my ribs at every traffic light when we made love I saw sound and his breath coated me like varnish I dreamt I lost him between books at the Rylands; sliding in and out between hardcovers I found him soaking in a clawfoot masked in steam, coaxing me to slide in there is a bustle of him in the square, gradient beard and all I visit it when we’re apart despite the stone, I feel his warmth

0

Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC

rebecca-gismondi

osculate

that summer I tasted music for the first time I loved a boy who said my knees knocked together like commuters during rush hour in his eyes were waves against Barceloneta and he slid lyrics in between my ribs at every traffic light when we made love I saw sound and his breath coated me like varnish I dreamt I lost him between books at the Rylands; sliding in and out between hardcovers I found him soaking in a clawfoot masked in steam, coaxing me to slide in there is a bustle of him in the square, gradient beard and all I visit it when we’re apart despite the stone, I feel his warmth

20

as I come into someone else’s own, I agree to meet my brother at a clawfoot tub I hope is still there. I fill a bucket with water and leave it with my wife for good luck. I walk from the house in mild weather and become plain to you. I pass the mud my father’s eye goes without. I tire. I come to in my brother’s arms and his badge has left a mark on my cheek. sleep is like a slug I can’t overtake and then it is my tongue or in its privacy. brother roughs me into the tub headfirst so I can hear the highway. he preaches and they were followed by two sets of footprints until the footprints had to rest else they’d be too fat to die. these parts you're money or hush money.

0

Nov 26, 2013

Nov 26, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC

barton-d-smock

talkies

as I come into someone else’s own, I agree to meet my brother at a clawfoot tub I hope is still there. I fill a bucket with water and leave it with my wife for good luck. I walk from the house in mild weather and become plain to you. I pass the mud my father’s eye goes without. I tire. I come to in my brother’s arms and his badge has left a mark on my cheek. sleep is like a slug I can’t overtake and then it is my tongue or in its privacy. brother roughs me into the tub headfirst so I can hear the highway. he preaches and they were followed by two sets of footprints until the footprints had to rest else they’d be too fat to die. these parts you're money or hush money.

1

In my red bathtub, my ceramic, clawfoot bathtub, with a single yellow light, above the mirror- I lie with you a lover who holds me in his arms, romantically I've never met a friend like you who I love so endless- ly and as we lie, the water slowly cooling, our knobby knees bobbing in the bliss I know there's love for me in you I see it somewhere in your touch even though I'm just a friend I love you and you know it and I hope one day you'll show it too.

0

Sep 20, 2015

Sep 20, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC

sarah-or-something

Clawfoot.

In my red bathtub, my ceramic, clawfoot bathtub, with a single yellow light, above the mirror- I lie with you a lover who holds me in his arms, romantically I've never met a friend like you who I love so endless- ly and as we lie, the water slowly cooling, our knobby knees bobbing in the bliss I know there's love for me in you I see it somewhere in your touch even though I'm just a friend I love you and you know it and I hope one day you'll show it too.

39

the farness of heaven is the farness of twin. a packed theater starts a fire in a factory. a mother and a father clay themselves as figures put to sleep in a clawfoot tub. across the board, a boy is crushed after witnessing for the image of the crowd-surfing girl he was made in. you can’t eat touch.

0

May 4, 2015

May 4, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

heel and hoof

the farness of heaven is the farness of twin. a packed theater starts a fire in a factory. a mother and a father clay themselves as figures put to sleep in a clawfoot tub. across the board, a boy is crushed after witnessing for the image of the crowd-surfing girl he was made in. you can’t eat touch.

1