"cupboards" poems
61
Papa above!
Regard a Mouse
O’erpowered by the Cat!
Reserve within thy kingdom
A “Mansion” for the Rat!
Snug in seraphic Cupboards
To nibble all the day
While unsuspecting Cycles
Wheel solemnly away!
12.8k
I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.
Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.
You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.
One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.
So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.
I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
mismatched furniture
a few dishes in the cupboards
a couple random blankets and lamps
a pan and a mug or two in the sink
a broken clock above the fake fireplace
a fake jackalope head on the fireplace
a couple college kids' apartment
my brother and his roommate
it isn't much but it feels like home
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
The desire to travel starts at birth
Such a powerful and common dream
To explore the earth
From opening forbidden cupboards as a toddler
To learning a new drinking game in a hostel in Europe.
Travel is a necessity to life,
Living properly
Almost as important as breathing
And should be as exercised just as much.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
I instagram
Your heart on the wall
And let the love stew.
Materialistic love
Of cupboards and
vermillion hue.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.
The self that:
Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.
it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self
the
self
tha
t
writes on ollld receipts,
kicks the covers off the bed
~lets my fingers play freely~
not every sentence has an en-
stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
writes in mArGiNs to save time
not all rules need to be f o l l o w e d
not all poems need to
sound the same
who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.
- p. winter
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
*
***No cerecloth has pockets
No bag fits in coffin
No grave has cupboards***
*
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
The bacon she bought
Fills the kitchen
With the smell of a morning
Done well.
But she's already left -
She drives three hours
Every day
To prove her career
Is worth pursuing
He's at home
Wondering if one day
She'll be bringing home the bacon
While he's keeping the house clean
And bringing up the children
Stocking cupboards with medicine
Looking after daily chores
Running back and forth
While she's bringing home the bacon,
She'll be bringing home the bacon.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 2:44 AM UTC
play wild things
lie is waking
spirit is american
the book is beat
where is wonderland, Alice?
Jurassic period dinosaurs,
oven toasted humans,
plastic skeletons,
dancing to ska,
cupboards organize themselves,
toking indian hides
blaring chocolate chip trumpet solo
as the laughing sun, rises
pen stroke sun rays
into a rainbow bouquet
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Baucis and Philemon,
Elderly souls, never empty of
Love,
Opened their doors for two strangers,
Whom
Unbeknownst to them, originated from
Above.
Zues and Hermes, cloaked in the robes of the
Poor,
Were turned away from every household,
Until they rapped on Baucis and Philemon's
Door.
"Come in, come in, shed your cloaks, and warm your hands,
Baucis,
Go!
Use our last loaves, grab the roast, the ham!"
Never mind their
Poverty
Never mind their
Nearly empty
Pantry and Cupboards
Baucis and Philemon possessed the rarest trait,
One the God's most
Coveted.
And while the two strangers ate their foods, and consumed their
Wine,
Baucis noted their cups never lowered beneathe the
Brim Line.
"God's... Divine!"
Cried the two elderly
Lovers.
"Follow us up the hill, Baucis, Philemon,
Do not look back as you climb,
Only to each other."
The two followed the Gods, still cloaked in the garb of strangers,
Never looking back at their village
Below.
Until, reaching the top, and turning back, their eyes didn't fall back upon their
Home.
Zues had called forth a flood, sent to destroy the once ungrateful
Village,
But where Baucis and Philemons cottage once lay,
A beautiful temple had risen from the filthy
Sullage.
Their wish to take care of the temple was swiftly
Granted,
As was their second wish, one that was almost
Demanded.
"I must die, as soon as my love does, I can't ever be without her."
The rest of their lives were spent glorifying the Gods for their kindness and love,
And when the time came for them to take their last
Breath,
Squeezed hands and warm souls crossed the River Styx,
And their broken and withered bodies were
Left.
The wrinkles on their
Skin,
Were made brown, and beautiful
Again
As their flesh turned to bark, and their hair to
Leaves,
The two elderly lovers, became intertwining
Trees.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
The most beautiful thing I've ever read-
was a love poem that I found,
hidden between the dusty cupboards of my mother's room,
filled with things that just
"didn't matter"
anymore.
It was flooding with thoughts I waved off as-
"foolish"
with fake plastic vows of love,
not unlike those crisp, shiny valentine heart rings,
only given to the most attractive every February.
Stories of parting,
from which shone a glossy sparkle like that of a fake glass diamond,
labeled with black numbers as something worth a thousand.
I've always thought that if you were going to leave someone, you should be aloof and cold.
If you make "warm memories", won't the parting just be that much harder?
That sunset that was described as being unrealistically
ethereal,
I tried to see it myself,
even hooking my feet around the cold metal bars of the balcony,
and pretending that I could fly.
But that sunset was fake too, I discovered.
A synonym of those medals that you eagerly await to get, but in the end,
aren't gold,
or silver,
but just a sheet of mocking plastic,
thousands of identical ones of which have been made,
in a factory choking on smog,
thousands of miles away,
in China.
There was always that villain,
who would try to break the lovers apart.
Sometimes,
the villain was described as, "dark", and "Irresistible".
I was puzzled by that fact,
mulling obsessively over the idea,
Why didn't the protagonist get with the villain in the end?
I was undeniably jealous, of the heroine,
who seemed to draw everyone to her with a warm light,
that I didn't seem to have, no matter how hard I tried.
She was a perfect damsel in distress,
waiting for her partner, who would always,
always,
without fail, come to save her from danger and the unknown.
They were both risking everything for what they loved.
"Stereotypical love poem,"
I scoff,
willing myself to throw that piece of paper away with the trash,
But-
to this day, the most beautiful thing I have read,
is that stereotypical love poem,
now tucked between two bookshelves,
which are full of things, that
"matter"
now.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Come misty-mouthed girl,
To a not so wonderful world.
Make me forget.
The investment of the other within me
has come to fill me with regret.
O take me back to before I could see all their flaws,
Before the familiarity of friendship clouded our view.
Back to when I could have believed in this so called 'love',
And could have believed in you.
Now a thick, dense obsession rises day to day
from within locked cupboards.
But not the naive, self-named kind of days once past;
The kind that clings to your personality
Like your sugar stained teeth the morning after cider;
A repulsive grit.
But I am looking for you.
Not an emissary of my misery,
But an idiosyncratic icon of
My ignorant days before I knew of
Poems, plays or 'Liberation'.
Just come and be my salvation.
My misty-mouthed girl.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn
for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within
my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard
of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair
and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?
Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.
I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!
Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.
She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
I follow him in the kitchen
We prepare saucepans;
onion, garlic, tomato, pesto, cheeses,
some flavour of the day...
(We're a fickle two)
and
Boil water, cream
Bubble, salt to taste
Cayenne for luck
He grabs and mixes and I trail,
Closing cupboards and sliding shut drawers the only sounds,
Otherwise silent in our routine.
No good will come of this
silence in our routine
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
In my home city of Dhaka, there is an abundance of bananas. Their sickly sweet aroma hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of human toil and chemical wastes to produce the true odor of despair. The lives of these bananas are relatively short. They start off in a poor farmer’s tree, dragged to market in a broken-down truck, and sold at a cut-throat price to the vendor. In a well-rehearsed play, vendor and consumer haggle over bruised bananas. The tired consumer brings the bananas home and hangs them in the kitchen where cockroaches stalk empty cupboards.
The next day, we, the children, will carry the bananas in empty lunch boxes to school. Together, we will sit through vapid lectures, tailored to make the clock tick slower. Not once will the teacher pause to encourage us to achieve. During lunch, we will devour our bananas with unwashed hands. Despite our best efforts, we will be corralled into our parents’ lives and become the next generation of factory workers and office clerks.
Sometimes though, a child manages to get a glimpse into the other world. I was fortunate enough to be one of these children. One afternoon, my father came into our tiny living room with a smile on his face and an object protruding from his shirt pocket. He told me that he had a special present for me. With a practiced flourish, he took out an orange from his worn shirt. My eyes widened with amazement.
To me, oranges were objects only celebrities and corrupt politicians could afford. They were luxury items, myths seen on television. Yet here I was, nothing extraordinary, holding a real orange in my palm. Slowly I peeled the orange, feeling my old impoverished self peel away simultaneously. As I tasted the first tangy slice, I heard the shackles of the banana chain fall. It was then that I truly felt that I had the power to become anything I wanted. That day, I was liberated from the vicious banana cycle.
From that day forward, I looked for positive events in my life, for signs of hope and change. One day, I saw my strict, condescending teacher discreetly hand an orange to a classmate whose family was unemployed. For the rest of the day, the child stood a little taller. For that day, he was no longer living in a destitute environment, but residing in the warmth of human nature.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Tempests may surround
in the worst of times
a storm to level ships
capsize friend and foe alike
waves that change not just lives
but memory
how tragedy frames our desires
as need, rather than options
as love, rather than responsibility
how the quilt of phoenix feathers
that we oft cover us for slumber
molts as we shed our tears
molts as we age through life
and though times do change
and shadows creep beneath the door frame
still we hear the voice whisper,
"The winds of victory are soon to come."
Memories are trinkets we trade for action
we trade for purpose
we trade for comfort
Efforts spent crafting the perfect memories
catch up to our imaginations over time
Snapshots we thought were sublime
Calamities we shut the door upon
In the kaleidoscope of reality
we can see their colors change
what was treasured becomes tattered with use
what was feared becomes power over abuse
As we build our lives from ashes
no longer need for phoenix feathers
as we shatter walls of illusion
fact from fiction
truth from delusion
we come to hear the voice command,
"The winds of victory are soon to come."
And there is a tumult in the cupboards
under the floorboards
in the rafters
an aching shout of protest
a rapping upon the windows of the soul
a look, in the eyes, of horror
a clinging on to the raft of hope
a desperate jump to the cliff of salvation
a plunging fall into starvation
a rushing flight into the arms of the past
a stepping back from its cold clutches
a fervent climbing of the mast
looking out to the distant horizon
seeing how light is carved from darkness
knowing how you were made this way
and that your limitations
are at the mercy of your love
walking forward, proudly saying,
"The winds of victory are here at last!"
And how the winds whirl about you
as you dance in the curls and twists
walking upon the waves of anguish
waves of guilt, love, and praise,
to know they all complete you
and that the storm is who you are
you build the foundations
that will prepare you
for becoming
a guiding star
that leads your loved ones to the noble place
where your dreams would lead you thus far
a place of healing
a place of trust
a place we all know is here
within.
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
What if nothing really meant nothing?
We use this word so flippantly,
In everything we do,
I've nothing in the cupboards,
But we all know that's not true,
There's nothing on the telly,
There's nothing in my purse,
I've nothing to wear right now,
This nothing is a curse,
I've nothing i can offer,
Nothing left to give,
Nothing in my life right now,
Nothing but to live,
But what a load of total crap,
We utter everyday,
We have so much to be grateful for,
In every single way,
So listen here to me right now,
It's not what we possess,
It's not what's in the cupboard,
Or the cut and style of dress,
It can't be measured by TV,
Or monetary gain,
It's what we feel and how we love,
That makes us all the same,
No matter what your day will bring,
Remember this is true,
That when you have a nothing phase,
I've got your back for you,
Because you have everything,
But nothing you can see,
And if all else seems to fail,
At least you have got me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
If you want into my life
Leave your baggage at the door
I've got enough all packed away
And I've no room for any more
I know you want to be with me
And I want to be with you
But, box up all your past mistakes
And you know what you can do
I've room to house all sorts of things
My cupboards are all bare
But, baggage like you're carrying
It's not stuff I want to share
If you want into my life
Leave your baggage at the door
I've got enough all packed away
And I've no room for any more
I went through hell a thousand times
Packed a bag inside my mind
for every failed relationship
And times I was caught blind
I want to have you in my life
And share our hopes and dreams
But, pack those bags up in your mind
And help deafen out the screams
If you want into my life
Leave your baggage at the door
I've got enough all packed away
And I've no room for any more
Whatever you did long before
Or even just last week
I don't need it here inside
I don't want to hear it speak
I've room for things..material
Like books and clothes and more
But if you bring bags of emotions
Then you'll not get past my door
If you want into my life
Leave your baggage at the door
I've got enough all packed away
And I've no room for any more
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Second step is a promise,
and you misled them
from safe haven
to slaughter.
Gods broken in fragments,
collected in plastic bags,
kept in cupboards
and drawers.
Worships in mirrors.
Praises the reflection.
You've imprisoned
thunderstorms
in your palms;
Are you the villain?
Hypocrite manipulator?
People exist to either assist you
or inconvenience you,
and your aim is to have
one class of person.
Disposable.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
With Buddha tattooed on my neck,
I feel like I might finally have a vague understanding of serenity.
Submerge my worries in drunken logic and suddenly I am floating.
Unable to keep my feet on the ground,
I make a habit of leaving cupboards open.
With my drunken intentions,
I lay my head in your lap.
You twirl my curls in your fingers trying to wrap yourself within me.
You are a rotting romantic.
My mother once told me to “Love softly, for love is fragile.”
It was then I realized that my mother had never been in love.
Love is a backstabbing ***** with no morals.
Love is merciful.
Love is red.
Love is rage.
Love is quiet.
Love is not fragile.
Fragile,
is my hand in yours at the end of the night.
When we’re too ****** up to function on the verge of passing out,
and you give my fingers one final squeeze.
I fight the sleep that is inevitable.
I watch as you dream with your mouth shut tight.
I imagine words of affection fighting to break free,
begging to make love to my ears.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
If lies are things off which they live
And they promise what they cannot give
They may wave her the reddest flag,
but to me, they’re glittering glass.
If magicians they be, I stand gawking;
Turning somethings into nothing,
Hiding pennies up their arms—
But I’m sure they gave me the moon and the stars.
A peek in their magic cupboards,
All their secrets, mercilessly uncovered
And I wish for nothing more
Than to be just a little dumber
To better appreciate my generous lover.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
This morning’s light seemed to blink on,
suddenly, like an urgent message.
It painted the lone, brittle cloud, racing somewhere
warmer, a shocking school-bus yellow.
There’s a -30 degree wind-chill this morning,
my coffee seemed hotter and more comforting.
I usually keep my windows cracked at night
but this air feels aggressive and sharp as a knife.
The quad, usually bustling on weekend mornings,
is empty and the few cars I see are smoking like old steam trains.
I was dreaming of sweets and of walking to “Donut Crazy,”
but that actually would be crazy, if not suicidal.
“Ooo!” I say after digging through the kitchen cupboards, “we have pop-tarts!”
Feb 8, 2023
Feb 8, 2023 at 12:31 PM UTC
my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup
i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation
whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into
or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do
just half way around the world
once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system
and what’s left escapes through condensation
the clouds will carry me to a bazaar
where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils
with rainy weather
in ******* up the work of most attendees
several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards
until they move or my soul dies of dust
one, if god allow two
painted mugs
are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment
coffee, *****
tea, *****
coffee
tea with *****
a cigarette accidentally
my father should feel proud to know
his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife
that i got a nice home
that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards
(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,
and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much
i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist
you’re right, i lied a couple of times
it cost just as much integrity as you said it would
i know i will do much better as a treasured cup
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
I can’t get to sleep at night for fear of what I see,
There is definitely something strange happening to me.
I see Demons in my bedroom dancing round my bed-
Devils on my inner lids poisoning my head.
Beelzebub is running riot driving me insane,
Demons just won’t let me rest-they’re causing grief and pain.
I’ve tried taking tablets; I’ve tried counting sheep
But nothing ever seems to work I still can’t get to sleep.
‘Cause there’s Demons in my bedroom, screaming and a prancing.
Every time I close my eyes I see the Devil dancing.
Weir wolfs howling all night through, Old Nick running riot.
Perhaps it is the food I eat, I’ll have to change my diet.
Sometimes I sneak to bed real late and try to be unheard
But in the cupboards they must wait, I know it sounds absurd.
As soon as I turn off the light and snuggle down to sleep
I get the most enormous fright when out they start to creep.
They just won’t keep from out my head-
Moonlight wakes the living dead.
Demons dance and weir wolf’s scream;
I know that it’s not just a dream,
‘Cause I can’t get to sleep at all
Sometimes it drives me up the wall.
I toss and turn and scream and shout,
The neighbours ask what it’s about.
But I’m afraid to ever say
They’ll think I’m mental straight away,
What normal person sees this sight?
When off to bed they go at night?
I don’t know, I can’t explain,
I know it’s driving me insane.
I’ll ask the vicar round for tea,
Then ask him if he’ll stay with me
To exorcise these hellish visions;
He’s sure to make the right decisions.
He shouldn’t ask or be judgemental
Even if he thinks I’m mental.
Surely there must be some hope,
If there’s not I just can’t cope.
I ask, could you sleep safe and sound
To know your bed has Demons round?
Answers truthfully, please don’t lie.
No You Couldn’t! Nor can I.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 9:53 AM UTC