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Robin Carretti Jul 2018
She moves with
      Grace
The Gracious meeting in denial
He's the baron of beef delicious side
Reproduction picture full slide
The most
   Casual face

Met the eternal masterly
    Artist face
Saying Oh! Grace
The other side of midnight
     Mask Face
She could overjoy anyone's
Heart in the right place
    Deceiving Face

The miracle of love principles
Such skepticism could it be overjoyed realism

But a hell of a time with heavenly bliss
What a shock when he gave me my kiss
His Crooked face to longevity nose
Hiding place A-Rose

Beachy trance-set face

Highlands of Scotland,
anybody would want her
     *Joyful face


He's the baronial
Secluded caves but risky dives
The turn only If?? I
could turn back the time
The events strictly
confidential

Her apple cheeks bathing suit
He is picking her fruit
So soothing the fiddle
Tinman whistles the ladies harps

Their medieval moment's help!!!
The swords  bust to his manly chest
Sleeping Inn New castle west
Their best bedrest

The cupboards open overjoyed
invitation decorative cans
Of greens, pinks, purple passion

And flourless chocolate cakes
Powdered lips love his reaction

She was seductively awe-inspiring
The top hills of Ireland grass
vividly raised her legs
The bowl next to her
The Rose blush wines
Bare it Fruit and figs

The baronial tug of war wigs

Melodious birds the
Grand One
The thousand piano words
Overjoyed but
under the {Baronial} weather

So lordly new threads tailored
White-collared
carpenter pants
Men of the herds
She's the
Caron French boutique

There ****** desires
The creature within
Wildly mating like critiques

Her perfumes so extinct
mysteriously
Overjoyed her heart
So cultured violin strings
Dollhouse Castle to restore
With her unique touches,
he wanted more

The steps tiring like a killed deer
every muscle he could hear

Over elaborating how people are dating
With a  stamped from the very
heart  approval
But hard times such laboring
Sitting in her
overjoyed chair
His face all Scrooged
no gifts of flowers
What are the odds of this pair

Over and over again her rainbow
her sensitivity we need longevity
The  endless walls are caving in
We are not so overjoyed by
this monster garden
She had her first breakdown
Going up the
Jack and Jill Ireland hill
In the longtime what long run
Way too short
It didn't come from above

The vintage oldtimer
radios sitting
together with
family listening
so long ago
So commercialized
The crazy shows
Where do you really want to go,
you just want to shut everything off

He called her the powder puff
Waiting for the nocturnal star
Those scrubs and hot rubs shower
Over my knee-high boots so in
love cahoots

Oh! It's her
The smart student
Owl Hoot whats to boot
Eating her shepherd's pie
so lordly full lips word-me
Ireland Holy Land
of love and beauty

Overly scrupulousness
The time of blessings

But the baronial loved to be
overly entertained
And she would sit there  
Blue-blooded royal dishes
Got flushed away no wishes

Oversimplification
Like the hardest love
of multiplication
The ****** overstimulation
Over embellished
But you're still positive
overjoyed
But why did she
want to vanish

Over-programming
    Web-Face
Destroyed her
Apple jubilee computer

Spiritual Zen
Or new lover Amen
Ever touched by Ireland maidens
Like the crimson and clover
I do believe in the
Four leaf clover Face

Like the only thing she picked
were the weeds
More beauty of life and deeds
Or tons of sorrow wondering
how she
would feel tomorrow?
We will never know
Overjoyed by so many things have the beauty Ireland is amazingly beautified or everything feels unnecessary gloomy or horrified you rather pick of ripe blueberry or cherry or blackberry living like your in the castle being summoned on by the Scrooged type Baron
the guys have turned up this morn
to  install my new kitchen cupboards
for years I've had little space
to store my miles of Tupperware and China in
storage room has been my bane
for far too long
finding enough shelving
to put the stuff on
celebrations
shall be had in my kitchen this day
as I have oodles of places
to store the gear away
Anonymous Freak Jul 2016
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.
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
Cowin Alan Jan 2016
My hands could not reach the cupboards
When I was young I was always the dreamer
I was the hero that saved
Sticks were swords
But I could never reach the cupboards

*

I'm still a dreamer
And I still need her
She was mess
I guess
As I'm sliding off her dress
And yes
I'm blessed
Cuz we shared the same bed
Where I rest my head
Its where I dream of you
howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
It felt so unnatural,
holding you in that
dimly lit room.

The cupboards were stained with
water and scratched -
other people's trails left
behind
now yours

We could've lived in that cupboard -
together,
and it we couldn't fit we would have
simply
hidden away the parts of ourselves that we
no longer got along with

We could've lived in that cupboard -
together,
you and me and our best selves,
and we could've held a flashlight underneath
each other's faces,
and make up stories about the weather or
what was for dinner that night.

But,
that wasn't what we did

We held each other in that
dimly lit room and it
felt so unnatural because

your face was twisted with the words
"goodbye"

but the weather was nice,
and we ate dinner alone.
Jordan Fischer Aug 2015
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.
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten
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!
Wass May 2014
I instagram 
Your heart on the wall
And let the love stew.
Materialistic love
Of cupboards and
vermillion hue.
Penelope Winter May 2017
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
Daniel James Mar 2011
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.
Ria Bautista Jan 2011
I
There once was a boy who lost his smile
His name was Colin Trench, born evil & vile
A pale-skinned young lad, tall, wide-eyed and frail
His ashen hair quite unkempt, but sometimes he puts it in a pony-tail
Always dressed in a proper black suit, bow tie & all
"It makes me look more evil" says he, standing proud and tall
He lived in a dark & dingy tower up on Dreadful Hills
Where birds refuse to sing and a mere glimpse would give anyone chills
His only consort is a cat named Lacrimose, vile & evil as he
Both love the taste of ginger bread, strawberry ale & rose tea

II
One dreary morning in November when Colin woke
He realized that he missed his smile, lost since he was a little bloke
He stepped out of his room and summoned his loyal cat
"O Lacrimose" he said, "Today we will find where my smile is at!"
They began searching the tower, high & low, left & right
"It's just around here somewhere" he whispered, "I probably lost it in the dead of night"
They pulled out old drawers, empty cupboards & dusty cabinets
But all they found were cobwebs, memorabilia & broken trinkets
"Ah Lacrimose!" shouted Colin, "Look what I found here!"
"This wind-up jumping frog was given to me by mother dear!"
They searched behind the curtains, under the bed and beneath the sheets
But all they found was another toy, a little black bird that tweets
"This little bird" he remembered, "I gave it a name"
"Ah yes, it's Horus and hide & seek was her favorite game."
He put both toys in his pocket and continued searching, never giving up
Colin & Lacrimose were determined to find the lost smile before the sun was up

III
They left the bedroom floor and down the basement they went
A dark & sinister place with walls of chipped cement
Colin turned the light on and a rusty typewriter is what they saw
“This clunky old machine” he said, “used to leave me in absolute awe.”
Pointing at the corner, he went on, “This is where father used to write”
“He read to me his wonderful adventures much to my delight.”
“Let’s go to the attic” he told Lacrimose with a sigh
“There’s nothing left to see here but half-written stories & goodbyes.”
So up the attic they went, but as they entered the floor began to creek
“This won’t take long, Lacrimose” he assured the cat, “We’re just going to have a little peek.”
“The last time I went up here” he recalled, “I was a little boy aged 7.”
“It was that fateful day I was told that my loving parents went to heaven.”
He looked at Lacrimose feeling somber as ever
And noticed his cat nibbling on what seems to be an old letter:
“Colin, our dear son” he read out loud, “We love you with all our hearts.
We’re sorry we had to leave you, in the morning we must part.
The choice is not ours to make, we have to fight for our country.
We’ll be home after the war is over, just in time for your birthday party.”


IV
As he held the letter in his hand, he sat on the floor and started to weep
His parents’ death he tried to forget, in his heart he buried it deep
“A few months after receiving this letter” Colin remembered completely,
“3 men in military uniforms informed me that my parents died valiantly.”
“They never made it to my 7th birthday, I had no reason to celebrate.”
“In my heart there used to be joy & love, but since that moment I replaced it with hate.”
And the days after that, Colin not once did cry
But today was different, he knew it was time to say goodbye
He went down the attic and walked to the garden behind the tower
Carrying with him Lacrimose, he picked up a tiny little flower
He approached his parents’ final resting place with hardly an upward glance
Colin yearned for forgiveness and this was his perfect chance

V
From his pocket he pulled out the wind-up frog & Horus, the little black bird
Along with the letter found in the attic and without saying a word
He neatly placed the items on the ground with the tiny flower on the side
Today Colin learned about acceptance; there is nothing left to hide
He began to speak and this is what he had to say:
“Forgive me mother & father, but your passing has left me in complete disarray.”
He kneeled on the ground and cried like he never did before
Tears streamed down his face and it didn’t stop ‘till his eyes were sore
His hands were shaking as he covered his face
He never did forget the loss he tried so hard to erase
As soon as he stood up and slowly opened his eyes
He saw on the horizon a beautiful & magnificent sunrise
Stepping through the field, wiping his tears away
To his loyal companion he said: “From now on we will have better days.”
“Lacrimose, my dear friend, we shall no longer be evil & vile”
Ah, it is a great day indeed for Colin Trench began to smile.
My first Children's Rhyme!

01.12.11
ringyorm Dec 2013
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
Joe Cole Oct 2014
I've put a lot of it together over the years
Tables, cupboards, display cabinets
Not been a problem
IKEA specials
Get them home and a few hours later
A work of art
Until this last week
I work part time as the handyman in a large office complex
Got a call "can you come in for a few hours"
Not a problem!!!!
Can you assemble those desks
Those cupboards
Those six foot storage units
Easy, done this so many times before
Opened the boxes
All the instructions were in French
Trying to follow line drawings
Cam locks, cam spindles, nuts, bolts, screws
Honor was on the line
Failure not an option
11 million pieces later and all was complete
And 755 pounds going into my bank account
It wasn't 11 million pieces but it sure felt like it
Never did figure out where all the left over screws etc should have gone
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.
Mark Ball Nov 2014
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.
Tina ford Nov 2014
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.
Samantha Dec 2013
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
Jayantee Khare May 2018

No cerecloth has pockets
No bag fits in coffin
No grave has cupboards


A thought..We leave empty handed from the world
Sour Apr 2014
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.
The mythological tale of Baucis and Philemon. This may be why I've found trees to be so beautiful.
Hewasminemoon Jul 2014
It was almost February and winter still hadn’t hit. I was beginning to
think that it wouldn’t arrive, and that spring was here. One evening as I was walking down the streets of the city I looked up to see a single snowflake falling down to meet my face. It was tiny and looked lonely, but a few moments later, it was followed by several more snowflakes. Sooner than later, the ground was covered in a white sheet of snow. and I was stuffing my hands in my coat pockets and pulling my hood on to brace myself against the bone-chilling wind. I made my way into a small coffee shop that was still open and was greeted by a short stocky man in his mid thirties with a dark, curly mustache and sleeves of faded tattoos.
“Hello” he said, his voice sounding deep and smooth. I pulled out my headphones that were burning in my ears, pressed pause on my phone and shoved them carelessly in my messenger bag.
“Hello”, I replied back with a slight smile, pulling my hands out of my
pockets and making my way to the counter.
The shop was small, but it had a staircase leading upstairs with more room for seating. The man who stood behind the counter continued to unpack small plastic covered packages, putting them away in cupboards and freezers. I pulled out my wallet from my bag and plopped it on the counter, feebly attempting to pull out my card with my hands shaking violently from the cold.
“What a night”, the man said, his eyes still focused on his duties.
“Hmm.” I said, nodding. “Can I get a 12oz mocha, please?” The man looked up from his package, and giggled coyly.
“Sure you can, sweetheart." He put the package that he was holding down below him, and began making the drink I had just ordered. My credit card held tightly in my hand, still shaking. There was awkward silence between us and I got the feeling the man understood I didn’t feel like talking. He finished my order, filling a small, white ceramic mug, and pushed it across the counter towards me.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head, implying no and handed him the cold card. He swiped it and handed it back to me, along with a receipt and a pen to sign. I signed the receipt, grabbed my coffee and headed up the stairs to my right. Upstairs, there was a large room with a dining room looking table and several chairs, and to the left, and a small hole in the wall with several cushions. I smiled at the welcoming spot, and took a seat. Pulling a small table up next to me, I set my coffee down, and rested my bag on the floor below me. The upstairs was completely empty. In fact; the entire shop was empty besides the man working downstairs. I took a deep breath in and let my head rest on some of the cushions behind me. Closing my eyes, I let out my breath and felt the warmth and the vast history of the shop run envelop me. I grabbed at the cup beside me and sipped at my coffee. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, so I set it down. Out of my bag, I pulled out my phone with the headphones still attached and scrunched into a tight tangled ball.
Untangling them, I placed each bud in my ear, and pressed play, continuing the song I had stopped when I had entered the coffee shop. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I sunk deeper and deeper into the pillows around me, the smell of old books seeping into my skin. Finally, I closed my eyes, and after a few moments, was sound asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a man’s face, unfamiliar but comforting.
“Excuse me…” he said, with a wide grin.
I jumped with embarrassment; ripping my headphones out of my ears, although they were no longer playing anything. How long had I been asleep? And who was this young man? An employee of the shop? A customer?
“Sorry!” I yelped.
The man chuckled as I swung my feet around to the floor and pulled out my phone to check the time. Realizing it was dead, I scanned the room for a clock and with no success I asked the stranger “What time is it?”
He rolled up his sleep, and checked what to be a rather expensive watch. The man was dressed nicely, but nothing too formal. A clean pair of black jeans, a plaid shirt and a sweater over it. His hair, a dark brown looked thick and slightly curled. He ran his fingers through it as he responded. “It’s quarter past.”
“Past what?”
He blinked at me. “Eight…” he paused at my confused look. “A.M”
I gasped at the time. It was just past nine at night when I had dozed off.
Why did the short stalky man not wake me? Did he forget I was upstairs?
Maybe he assumed I had left, and just missed me doing so.
“I…I…” I stumbled upon my words. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, still
unsure who this man was.
“My boss told me you’d be up here.” He lifted my cup of cold coffee and
handed it to me. “I can get you a warm cup if you’d like. We don’t open for another half hour.”
I nodded, and with the cup in hand, the man turned and headed down the stairs. I gathered my things, smoothed out my shirt, tossed my hair to one side and followed the man down the stairs.
“My names Elliot” he shouted from behind the counter and the noises of the coffee machine.
“Ellie.” I shouted back.
A door swung open and in Elliot’s hand was a new cup of coffee.
“That’s a coincidence.”
I smiled nervously and took the cup from the man.
“Sit.” he said, nodded to a table.
I followed his instructions and set my cup down and pulled out a chair.
He stared at me for a moment as I stared at my coffee. After a long moment of silence, I started.
“I am so sorr-”
He stopped me and reached out, resting his hand on top of mine.
“It’s alright Ellie…really.”
I had a few questions but didn’t know where to start. So I let the silence
continue.
“My boss figured you needed a place to stay.”
I wasn’t homeless. Did I look homeless?
“Do you...have somewhere to go…?”
I nodded. “I’m not homeless…” I proclaimed. I couldn’t help but stare at
his hands. There was something different about them from the rest of the
man.
“I figured. You’re too well dressed to be homeless.” He smiled, and his
hands moved up and through his hair again.
“So, if you’re not homeless then what’s your story?”
My story? I didn’t have a story. I was a young single girl. Lonely. Living
on her own in the city. On her way home when a snow storm hit. I just stopped into the coffee shop to get warm, not to spend the night like some refugee.
“My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” he continued to grin at me.
I paused to think of an answer.
“I was just on my way home. Stopped in for a cup of coffee. Guess I didn’t
drink enough of it.”
He laughed at the comment, showing a set of pearly white teeth.
“Maybe it wasn’t a very good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the cup in front of me. I lifted it and took a sip.
“This cup’s better.” We both laughed softly, then found each other staring
for long while at one another.
“I’ll make sure not to tell my boss you said that.”
I took another sip. “I should probably go…” I said, standing up.
“Go where?”
“Home.”
He shook his head chuckling slightly. “Hang out. I’ll open late.”
“I don’t want to be more of an inconvenience than I already have been.”
Elliot reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it softly.
“Ellie.”
My eyes grew wide, and I felt my heart beat quickly within my chest.
“Let’s not play games with one another. Stay.”
I pulled my hand away, and bit my lip.
“I can’t. I’m sorry Elliot.” I grabbed my bag from under the table, and thew
it across my shoulder. “Thank you…” I said, thinking of his hands but
staring at the blue in his eyes. I turned around, and pushed the door open.


---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

It was Valentine’s Day (or as I like to call it “Singles Awareness Day” ) and my friend had dragged me out to this terrible bar in the suburbs  titled “Distraction” My friend, who was newly single and “ready to mingle” laughed when she saw the big blue sign with the name.
“That’s an ironic name” she said, snickering.
I nodded my head and groaned as we headed inside. She was right. What was this bar distracting me from? If anything, it was drawing more attention to the things I was supposed to be distracted from by just existing with such a name. My friend walked up to the bar, leaned against a stool and ordered something sweet. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head no. After a few minutes of small talking with her, and watching her sip at her watered down drink, I noticed a young man walking towards us. The bar was dimly lit, and I couldn’t quite make him out but I sighed and turned towards the bartender.
“*** and coke” I hollered out to the man. “Pour heavy!”
I stayed facing the shelves of drinks, the different bottles organized by color and type. Whiskey, Tequila, *****. Suddenly, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and with a deep inhale, I turned; expecting some man with sleeked back hair and a bad tan to be facing me.
Instead, it was Elliot. Staring at me, standing inches from my face. I took a step back into a bar stool, and fell into a seat.
“Ellie” he said, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile for a moment too, but then I quickly wiped it away as the bartender slid my drink to the right of me. Before I could do anything, Elliot placed a few dollars on the counter.
“You don’t have to -“
“It’s fine”  He continued to smile widely.
I looked around the room for my friend, she was across the room playing darts with some broad shouldered man. I took my glass, placed the straw on the counter and gulped down about half of it in one drink.  
“Happy Valentines Day” he said, almost sarcastically following the statement with a slight laugh.
I felt myself smiling again and took another gulp. The bartender definitely poured heavy. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, and I clenched my teeth. I could tell Elliot was trying hard not to laugh.
“Would you like to dan-“
I bursted out laughing.
“Dance? Oh god, please. Don’t do this Elliot.”
He stared at me widely for a moment. “What are you so afraid of Ellie?”
I scoffed, and shook my head, taking another drink I responded
“I’m not afraid of anything”
He blinked at me, then ran through his fingers through his hair and breathed out loudly.
“Is it me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, or what he was really even asking. I stumbled on my words, stuttering. I finished my drink, and set the glass down on the counter.
“Another?” he asked.
“No...” I paused. “Thank you”
He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away.
“Ellie...Let me-“
I interrupted him and shouted out “space!”
He looked puzzled, then chuckled.
“What?”
“I’m afraid of space”
“Space....? Please elaborate.”
“Like the sky, and the planets and the stars and ****”
He laughed softly. “And ****...”
“Think about it. We have no idea what’s out there. We have no idea what’s coming for us. We are so small, comparatively.”
“So you believe in aliens?”
“I believe in possibility”
“Anything could happen.”
“Exactly! Right now, as we speak, the sun could explode.”
“Or, aliens could invade!”
“You’re really stuck on the alien thing.”
“It’s a possibility”
We both sat in silence for a moment, his eyes felt heavy on me. I stood up from my stool, our bodies were almost touching.
“I’ve got to go see if my friends OK.” I said, glancing over at her. She was still playing darts with the broad shoulder man. He had his arms wrapped around her, ‘showing’ her how to hold the dart now.
“She looks like she’s doing ok to me” Elliot said with a snicker.
I didn’t argue.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
I shook my head violently. “Look, Elliot. You seem-“ I stopped and thought of how I wanted to finish my sentence, but before I could, Elliot grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Ellie. I’m just a man. I’m not some comet coming down or some alien race a million light years away. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
I took a few shallow breaths, my heart was pounding. I tried pulling away, but Elliot just pulled himself closer to me.
“You said you believe in possibility. You can’t deny the possibility of you and me.”
“I...”
He reached up, and tucked a hair that was falling down my face behind my ear then stepped back, letting go of my hand.
“I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to help you conquer your fear”
“Oh?”
He grabbed my hand again and pulled me towards the door, I looked over to my friend, but didn’t fight him.
“She’ll be okay.” he said, still tugging me.
I followed him out the door and down the street. We stopped and hailed a cab, as one pulled up, he opened the door for me.
“Get in.”
“I don’t even know you. You could be taking me to some wear house to **** and ****** me!”
“Ellie. Don’t be so dramatic. Get in”
“Where are we going?”
“To the moon.”
“And back again?”
“We’ll see. Maybe once you get there, you’ll never want to leave.”
“It’s a possibility”
I stepped inside the cab, and so did he.

------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------


Once we were in the cab, the rush of excitement I was feeling in the bar and in the street had faded. Elliot handed the man his phone, which had an address written on it. The cabbie put the address into his GPS and started the meter as he drove on.
“So are we taking the cab to the moon? Or are we just taking the cab to NASA and then a spaceship to the moon?” I said sarcastically, my voice breaking from nervousness. Elliot put his hand on my leg, and sat back into his seat without saying anything.
“Who’s paying for the cab Elliot?”
He continued to be silent. I turned at stared out the window, I noticed the cab was taking us out of the city and I began to get a little worried.
“Can you please tell me where we’re going?” I asked quickly. I looked back at Elliot, he was sweating.
“Elliot? Is everything OK?” His eyes were shut and his breathing was heavy.
“I’m afraid of things in motion.” he muttered softly.
“Isn’t everything in motion?” he opened his eyes, raised his brows and then smiled at me.
“I mean, the world is always turning and we’re walking, or breathing. So we’re moving, no matter what-“
“Can you be quiet please?”
I looked back out the window again for what felt like a long while. Finally, the cab stopped in front a large abandoned dome like building in a town I had never been in. Elliot was quick to exit the cab, and circle the car to open my door. I stepped out, Elliot paid the driver and the cab drove away.
“So you ARE going to **** and ****** me?”
Elliot looked at me, and took my hand.
“I’m sorry about in the car. What mean by things in motion is like, cars and trains and planes and...” he paused, “and ****...”
We both laughed.
“I knew what you meant. I’m sorry if I was being difficult.”
He gave me a look and I nodded at him. He took me by the hand and led me closer to the building. We reached a door that had been boarded up.
“This doesn’t look like the moon...Or NASA...”
“Ellie. Do you trust me?”
“I...I don’t really even know you so-“
Elliot pried back at the board, slipping into the building through a small space and pulled me inside with him. The room we stepped into was a circle, and in the center; a large telescope.
“Does that even work?”
He squeezed my hand, then let go. Approaching the telescope, he stepped up a small set of stairs to a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and a few moments later, I heard a whirring and a low rattle followed by a deep sound. I felt a slight vibration and suddenly the roof was opening above me, exposing the night sky. On this night, the stars were bright, and the moon was full.
“Come here” Elliot called out from near the telescope.
I started to shake only slightly at the sight of the sky above me, I felt frozen and tense, as if I couldn’t move. Elliot made his way down the stairs and towards me.
“It’s okay Ellie.” he said, reaching for my hand and guiding me towards the telescope. We stepped up the stairs, and he stood next to me, still holding my hand as he adjusted a few things, looking in the telescope, then at me, then back through the telescope. He turned towards me, nudging me.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at the giant metal telescope, and shook my head.
“I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here but-“
He put his hand on my lower back, and pushed me towards the telescope.
“Just look.”
I put my face close to the telescope, an
1.

I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain.
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I'd never get you back again.
I tell you what you'll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.

I, who chose two times
to **** myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomine
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume.

Death was simpler than I'd thought.
The day life made you well and whole
I let the witches take away my guilty soul.
I pretended I was dead
until the white men pumped the poison out,
putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole
of talking boxes and the electric bed.
I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel.
Today the yellow leaves
go queer. You ask me where they go I say today believed
in itself, or else it fell.

Today, my small child, Joyce,
love your self's self where it lives.
There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,
why did I let you grow
in another place. You did not know my voice
when I came back to call. All the superlatives
of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe
will not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
The time I did not love
myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove.
There was new snow after this.

2.

They sent me letters with news
of you and I made moccasins that I would never use.
When I grew well enough to tolerate
myself, I lived with my mother, the witches said.
But I didn't leave. I had my portrait
done instead.

Part way back from Bedlam
I came to my mother's house in Gloucester,
Massachusetts. And this is how I came
to catch at her; and this is how I lost her.
I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said.
And she never could. She had my portrait
done instead.

I lived like an angry guest,
like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child.
I remember my mother did her best.
She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled.
Your smile is like your mother's, the artist said.
I didn't seem to care. I had my portrait
done instead.

There was a church where I grew up
with its white cupboards where they locked us up,
row by row, like puritans or shipmates
singing together. My father passed the plate.
Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said.
I wasn't exactly forgiven. They had my portrait
done instead.

3.

All that summer sprinklers arched
over the seaside grass.
We talked of drought
while the salt-parched
field grew sweet again. To help time pass
I tried to mow the lawn
and in the morning I had my portrait done,
holding my smile in place, till it grew formal.
Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit
and a postcard of Motif number one,
as if it were normal
to be a mother and be gone.

They hung my portrait in the chill
north light, matching
me to keep me well.
Only my mother grew ill.
She turned from me, as if death were catching,
as if death transferred,
as if my dying had eaten inside of her.
That August you were two, by I timed my days with doubt.
On the first of September she looked at me
and said I gave her cancer.
They carved her sweet hills out
and still I couldn't answer.

4.

That winter she came
part way back
from her sterile suite
of doctors, the seasick
cruise of the X-ray,
the cells' arithmetic
gone wild. Surgery incomplete,
the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard
them say.

During the sea blizzards
she had here
own portrait painted.
A cave of mirror
placed on the south wall;
matching smile, matching contour.
And you resembled me; unacquainted
with my face, you wore it. But you were mine
after all.

I wintered in Boston,
childless bride,
nothing sweet to spare
with witches at my side.
I missed your babyhood,
tried a second suicide,
tried the sealed hotel a second year.
On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this
was good.

5.

I checked out for the last time
on the first of May;
graduate of the mental cases,
with my analysts's okay,
my complete book of rhymes,
my typewriter and my suitcases.

All that summer I learned life
back into my own
seven rooms, visited the swan boats,
the market, answered the phone,
served cocktails as a wife
should, made love among my petticoats

and August tan. And you came each
weekend. But I lie.
You seldom came. I just pretended
you, small piglet, butterfly
girl with jelly bean cheeks,
disobedient three, my splendid

stranger. And I had to learn
why I would rather
die than love, how your innocence
would hurt and how I gather
guilt like a young intern
his symptons, his certain evidence.

That October day we went
to Gloucester the red hills
reminded me of the dry red fur fox
coat I played in as a child; stock still
like a bear or a tent,
like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox.

We drove past the hatchery,
the hut that sells bait,
past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall's
Hill, to the house that waits
still, on the top of the sea,
and two portraits hung on the opposite walls.

6.

In north light, my smile is held in place,
the shadow marks my bone.
What could I have been dreaming as I sat there,
all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone
of the smile, the young face,
the foxes' snare.

In south light, her smile is held in place,
her cheeks wilting like a dry
orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown
love, my first image. She eyes me from that face
that stony head of death
I had outgrown.

The artist caught us at the turning;
we smiled in our canvas home
before we chose our foreknown separate ways.
The dry redfur fox coat was made for burning.
I rot on the wall, my own
Dorian Gray.

And this was the cave of the mirror,
that double woman who stares
at herself, as if she were petrified
in time -- two ladies sitting in umber chairs.
You kissed your grandmother
and she cried.

7.

I could not get you back
except for weekends. You came
each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit
that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack
your things. We touch from habit.
The first visit you asked my name.
Now you will stay for good. I will forget
how we bumped away from each other like marionettes
on strings. It wasn't the same
as love, letting weekends contain
us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name,
wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying.
You can call me mother and I remember my mother again,
somewhere in greater Boston, dying.

I remember we named you Joyce
so we could call you Joy.
You came like an awkward guest
that first time, all wrapped and moist
and strange at my heavy breast.
I needed you. I didn't want a boy,
only a girl, a small milky mouse
of a girl, already loved, already loud in the house
of herself. We named you Joy.
I, who was never quite sure
about being a girl, needed another
life, another image to remind me.
And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure
or soothe it. I made you to find me.
PeatrJay May 2014
these cupboards never wanted to be cupboards.

they were trees before we came around...

happy ones at that.





why am I okay with that?
they are nice cupboards tho.
K D Kilker Apr 2013
Man
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.
Not about men as a whole. I was always very meek and vulnerable growing up, and that seemed to be a magnet for the red-flag guys.
Amanda Small Dec 2011
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.
A Child’s Story

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

“Come in!”—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in—
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!”—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
- Save one who, stout a Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce and inch before me,
Just as methought it said ‘Come, bore me!’
- I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest **** with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Calip’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stepped into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by—
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!”
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six”:
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church-Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.

So, *****, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
TheSaneSaloon May 2019
They are thieves, and yet they walk in
"No forced entry."  has been the told tale
"Oh, home sweet home." sighs the owner.
A stranger in his home, but his home all the same
He knows every cranny
He'll sit and watch them raid the cupboards,
they leave when full...Broken bottles, Cigarettes strewed

He was made for a 100 miles.
Born for The Chase
Gathering arms, declaring the hunt

All day I run with no end in sight
My gaze has weakened
So again I rise, and lift my head to stare down the horizon
I will run a 100 miles and even more,
Until exhaustion grips my foes, bringing them to the dirt
I tower over what once dominated,
And looking down
I see them...

Clawing at my feet for mercy.
Choking between sobs, they curse me.

Snot bubbles form, laced with dust.
Terror takes its grip.
They beg me, "lets us go, you must!"

Our eyes meet, and silence takes reign.
I stretch out my hand, wink, and say thanks for the pain.
About inner demons.

I think its appropriate to disclaim that I posted this last year for a brief time to only make it private. However, its been changed, so I want to share once more. Its hard letting it go, I wanted to hold onto it until it was "perfect"
Austin Heath Mar 2015
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.
Paul Goring Mar 2010
Your fragrance remains

In high corners & cupboards

Your hairs painted into

The fabric of the walls

Filigree veins

Your very skin as dust

Sealed

Stratified

Into the place

Our home



Your finger print

Clear on the gloss painted frame

Eye lashes in the mirror corners

Your broken wine glass fragment

Beneath the fridge

With my contact lens

Staring blindly at

Each other

For recognition



Your rounded buttock curve

Sits in the leather

Of your favourite place

And your fragrance

In high corners & cupboards
Copyright - Paul Goring 2010- From Just A Nod
Kathy Z Jun 2013
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.
Tim Knight May 2013
Hiding in toilet suites
on hotel floors,
above showers-for-two,
and below countless stairs.

Dodge large lobby hallways
and the corridor artery, early-décor, maze,
run past cleaner’s cupboards:
potions for the unsavoury, unclean,
another lost, single mother.

A room service delivery
to a door you don’t own,
yet it keeps the unknown
fears and doubts
out.

Flick and press that remote
because long nights lead
to hours of unrest,
you’re tired of this hotel,
you’re tired of their upper-class clientèle,
you’re tired of that artificial smell,
you’re tired.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
We are a people living in shells and moving
Crablike; reticent, awkward, deeply suspicious;
Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids,
Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us,
Afraid lest someone weep in the railway train.

We are coiled and clenched like a foetus clad in armour.
We hold our hearts for fear they fly like eagles.
We grasp our tongues for fear they cry like trumpets.
We listen to our own footsteps. We look both ways
Before we cross the silent empty road.

We are a people easily made uneasy,
Especially wary of praise, of passion, of scarlet
Cloaks, of gesturing hands, of the smiling stranger
In the alien hat who talks to all or the other
In the unfamiliar coat who talks to none.

We are afraid of too-cold thought or too-hot
Blood, of the opening of long-shut shafts or cupboards,
Of light in caves, of X-rays, probes, unclothing
Of emotion, intolerable revelation
Of lust in the light, of love in the palm of the hand.

We are afraid of, one day on a sunny morning,
Meeting ourselves or another without the usual
Outer sheath, the comfortable conversation,
And saying all, all, all we did not mean to,
All, all, all we did not know we meant.
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --

you sleep on them for days
and exhume them from the ground
because they matter! so deeply!!
there's no metaphor that does them justice!!
it's poetry because it isn't!!!

i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.

thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).

i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.

as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.

i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.

watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.

i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
(feel free to leave some interesting tidbits of your own life in the comments. you all seem fun enough.)
you can't make metaphors out of this stuff if you bother to write about it: they're just facts that are true. so let's chuck them all into a draft and call it a list poem. or free verse. or an experiment. hey, if 'anything can be poetry', so can this!
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
a thousand restless fingers
pluck along my nerves
and crawl swarming bees
over my flesh
******* dry honey
and I as a comb am empty
waiting on the waxing moon
to bring in the tide
exposed and littered
on the cracked seabed
lighting beeswax candles
impromptu runway lights
for those aeroplanes
who always fail to land
and wasted afternoons
fade into wasted nights
tossing to and fro
I sleep
under the cupboards instead
Featured along with other fine poems in my poetry collection, "Blood for Honey", available on Amazon or through Lulu.
Kaitie Jan 2013
Below my sleeping taste buds
a low gurgle is heard
(through my veins or skin?)
and the groggy bits of tongue
entice my need to feed
    --Something sweet, salty
        spicy and satisfying...

So wander, i did to the kitchen
so medium with cupboards filled
with boxes and bottles
cans and stretched stomachs
(too, so medium).
I reach for bread, a toaster
then milk and a mug.
I toast and zap,
then spread and rip
then pour, and oh! what more?

Aromas lifting my nose higher
than my need to feed.
A ding for warm milk,
and a splash from a spoon

Some spice? Squirt some Sriracha.
Salty? Add seasoning of garlic and pepper
The PB&J; classic: now advanced!
Warmed milk turned Cocoa
more splashing, then stirring, i made
L   U   N   C   H

Funny, as i bite into the
sweet, salty, spicy and savory sandwich
I look onto the spilled milk and Cocoa powder
and am reminded of the cosmos.
This shattered house
  I've found myself surrounded by
Breaks a little more each day
   The walls I've built and plastered
Are peeling away layers of guilt
    Hanging mirrors with shadows of reflections
    Ghosts of ink spilt
This floor, these bricks, the cement out the doorstep
     Pavement falling apart from where so many shoes have walked
   Decorated with outlines of broken hearts in chalk
      If these walls could talk
They'd tell stories of rage and pain,
   Of the misery born into its foundation
           Day after day
If these cupboards could hold as many secrets as those walls have heard
    Of the lies they've tried to hide away inside, they would burst
      If you could save the tear drops that have fallen under this crumbling roof top
    Then you could drown this dilapidated house
       Bury it alive with no doubt that the years of emotion and agony it's kept hidden inside
  Will easily and willingly have peace when it dies
       The color of the paint would simply be forgotten before the end of the day
     The torn and rotten foundation would just be ripped away and replaced
  With stronger cement at its base for someone new to cling to
      And new walls and paint for another soul to suffer through
  But this shattered house still stands
      There's no plans to rebuild all these shards of my broken heart splattered on the ground
   And nothing will ever replace my soul when this house falls down
The empty beer cans that you used to defy gravity
They empty shampoo canisters that washed away your wrath and loss
The empty notebooks not filled with the poetry you weren’t inspired enough to write
The pages of books you couldn’t finish but pretend you did
The lost shoes and who you where with you feet deep in grass and not cardboard
The bed you don’t sleep in because you have found a warmth the don’t sterilize
The roommate who things didn’t fill up your cupboards now designated for other objects
The roads you don’t drive because you have nowhere to go

Life is in the muffled noises you hear between rooms
The nights you didn’t take pictures
The ones you don’t remember even though they shaped your exact being
The times you felt boring
Or when you didn’t realize how many substances you were on
Or the papers you could have made genius  
The empty boxes of hairdye that washed out in a week and didn’t cure your suburban binality
The dumb tattoos you want to get but now would be a shameful laser treatment
Your daydreams that never came true
Your daydreams that always came true and somehow didn’t lead up to there power of inception

Life is in other peoples good nights
Other people dark pasts of drug abuse and  civil unrest in the **** of an earthquake
Life is in the drug you where afraid to do
In the lies that you tell to become a different person
Its in the people you treated like **** for your own guilty needs
Its in the people whose gritty *** you walked in on

Life is in your lack of passions or skills or drive or organization
Its in the stupid ironic thift store choices you don’t throw away but never wear for 99 cents
Its in all the time you didn’t sing in a crowd
And you let someone convince you of facts you knew where wrong
It in every liar, and ****** human being you defined inorder to not believe they were ****
Its in every used ****** of the one night stands that made miserable times but good stories
Its in *** length hair
In tongue scars
In the people who know too much about you and you have know idea

Life is in your love of things you hate
In empty coffee cups that once saved you in a moment of weakness
In all the tears you shed drunk
Its in all you temporary obsessions and forgotten hobbies
The greeting cards you didn’t read and the thank you you never gave

Life is in the person you thought you would be right now
The empty packs of stubbed cigarettes
The forgotten names and anonymous snuggles
The empty guns and unfolded knives
The unmailed letters that help you reach redemption by telling them you would never forget

Life is in the times you didn’t run to the wild
The people who weren’t who you thought
The soul mates that became frat brothers
Or those people who drifted because you didn’t no what to say anymore

Life is in our unbrushed teeth
Or the void you cant find
Or the puzzle piece hid under the radiator
Life is in the wine bottles we stack

Life is in what we treat as forgotten streaming unconscious waste
Because we always looked ahead, and to empty more that will never fill
b e mccomb Oct 2018
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
copyright 10/29/18 by b. e. mccomb
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The day after my childhood self wouldn't leave the old house and cupboards, I sat in the dark with my boxes and these pretend grown-up versions of myself.
I'm losing my favourite memory, I cant find the right side of paper but I will always flip the page. I know I am stuck. Still seeing the image of your skirts disappearing around old pine door frames, try to run after the hem to ask you where I left the right box. Can't even find the words to ask.
Sometimes the last thing we ever get to say is “goodbye, old house”, we don't always get a chance to kiss it on the cheek before we leave.
That nothing we lost once was inside you the whole time.
I remember the private hospital rooms, we know that for that much money you have to switch of the part of you that won't stop dying.
You still visit.
You still visit in the form of robins following me home, of ghosts enclosed whispering in a space reserved,
breath suspended in mid air,
the very last one.
I made a room of ghosts for you.
And if I could have stopped time
I would have paused it in the middle of this room.

Open the yellow memory box one last time.
Snippets of foundation year spoken word typed out. Themes: collection, loss, memory, home, moving house
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.

— The End —