"decorations" poems
Happiness is Christmas decorations in April. Good memories trapped in time that we never wish to release
Happiness is release
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
The deafening house music
The crowd of colorful suits and gowns
And the shifting colorful lights
Trapped me in the ballroom
The tasty sophisticated food
The elegant decorations
And the freaking mandatory cotillion
Didn't stop me from ******** up
I should've been more social
I should've treated my date better
And I should've enjoyed the evening
But my fear and doubt won over me
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
whom do you trust
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor....
what eyes see the meaning of the blind
what tongues listen...which lies
in the picturesque morning
beauty spins its deceptions with golden hued sunlight
weaves its hand puppet theatricals made of
fleeting wisps of smiles
kissing gestures weakly delivered
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor...
they gather round the dead man
some come to mourn the lost
some come to rifle through his pockets
some come to silently wait for their own fate
he sits in his worn chair
in a pool of lamplight
with a small hammer in hand
his spectacles on bridge of his nose
tapping tapping ever so gently the thin metal mask
tinker...tailor...sailor...solider
the uniform of his mind shifts according to his lie
his tool is always the deceptions and misdirections
a sly smile...firm handshake...a signature style
'to whom do you trust' is a phrase that troubles him
her perfume lingers in the air
years have buried the cold war
but not its warriors
not their handiwork
they dress the dead man for his burial
with his decorations and platitudes
with his shiny sword and neat uniform
with honors they lay him
with truths his secret they bury him
why did he do thus....to whom did he answer
to the tomb with his truths and lies
to the tomb
he gathers the long coat
and the umbrella
walks out in london's chill spring night
to a bridge
and throws a small box into the river
long years after the cold war died
these men of shadows still play
these keepers of the gate still watch for hannibal and his horde
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor
whom do you trust
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain
Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives
Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade
Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Small and observant,
this girl child already loves her solitude.
Dark eyes taking in everything for much later,
long hair a little mussed-up, tumbling over feet pyjamas,
she stands quietly in the doorway of her little bedroom.
Across old parquet floors, into spare white rooms
she gazes at the grown-ups in their party clothes,
secretly planning that someday she will be one of them.
Plain white origami birds, suspended from the high
vintage ceilings, hand-made from her poet-mother's
typing paper, are the only decorations.
The soft, indirect lighting, all invented by her father
out of simple things, creates a perfect visual tone.
This quiet inventor has also chosen jazz he loves
to animate the evening for his friends.
These grown-ups in their party clothes,
yellows, greens and reds, puffy skirts, stiletto heels,
men in simple suits, white shirts, thin black ties,
talented painters, holocaust survivors, intellectuals,
talking, laughing, smoking too much, martini glasses in hand.
What stayed with her most was the music, and the way
it brought the whole world right to her.
Jazz from here in her native city,
Soft, sultry Bossa Nova that her soul knew even better.
Only some of what she saw that night became the life she chose.
The intimacy of observing, of silently forming words around
what she saw, talking and laughing with friends,
loving passionately, getting scorched to the bone,
and the music, the music....
The music would always stay with her, leading her across
wide expanses of this beautiful old world
to the parts of it that she would someday taste, and see.
Her life would become the stretching wide open of her heart.
To love it all, to write about it all.
to give this back, someday,
to the music, and to this big, beautiful old world.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
She’s the type of scary that isn’t in horror movies or Halloween decorations, not the kind that makes you scream or want to run away but the silent sort that paralyzes you and makes you wish you had never, not just lived, but existed at all after witnessing that type of darkness. The kind that instills mind shattering dread in your soul and the desire to simply crumble inwards totally destroyed in a pile of dust so you may never feel again because nothing will ever fix what you saw and felt. The kind of scary that makes you properly comprehend the word’s meaning. I would be wrong, however, if I were to tell you she is the worst kind of scary because the word “worst” means it’s the furthest on the scale and this terror is not on the same scale as any other sort of scary. This broke the scale. This is beyond. This is its own kind of scary. On its own level, in its own dimension, under its own category,
this
....is true scary....
Please comment I'd love to hear any thoughts! This is a description of a free verse poem describing one of the characters I created.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Mattel is proud to present their new doll
Barbie as a mom
Barbie as a mom let kids explore their nurturing side
Barbie as a mom comes with exclusive accessories like
A child
And a bottle to keep them quiet
Barbie can now look responsible and put together between her friends
Barbie can now proudly show her offspring and receive compliments
Enjoy all the perks that Barbie as a pet owner didn't have
Barbie as a mom can also wear matching outfits and upload them to Instagram
Wouldn't she look so cute?
Accessories don't have names
Doll cannot stand alone
Colors and decorations may vary
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 11:04 PM UTC
christmas lights have a smell
as does freedom, hatred, and ugliness of heart
headaches have a smell, clarity has a smell
home smells like new wood and sand,
both growing up and childhood smell like smoke,
fear smells like my sister's old bathroom
sleep smells like my mom's perfume
love is warm and smells like sleep
anxiety smells like Pure Sport Old Spice deodorant,
work smells like a gym,
familiarity smells like the locker room when the trash
hasn't been taken out,
lost love smells like grass on the lakefront,
nostalgia smells like a cappucino,
comfort in isolation smells like the fur of a dog,
purpose smells like a church,
platitudes smell like mildew,
tears smell like rotten wood but joy smells like that too,
jubilation smells like a fire crackling,
discomfort smells like that attic smell
when the Halloween decorations are taken out,
new beginnings as well as things we leave behind
smell like airports and morning dew,
risk smells like a hot tub,
liberty smells like a public pool,
a broken heart smells like the mountains,
but a healed heart smells like them too.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.
Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?
I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.
My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.
I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.
Is Christmas coming this year?
I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.
Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.
No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.
The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.
I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
she pours me a glass of wine
and with overgentle hand caresses my cheek
tells me a tale from her long ago
in a strange voice like smoke
tells me me of a love that chimed like the bells of spring
rang straight and true
like carefully crafted glass slippers on the night dancer
like all the comfortable things that she keeps
in the closet of her heart
pulling out the decorations in dusty celebration
of the summer night years past
with the photographs sad with their smiles
that true love of her girlhood
standing in the dusk holding his hand
and the kiss like a king and his blushing princess bride
she was so nervous she left her shoes on the lake shore
and when he was gone to the distant winter gate
she lingered by the icicle window tracing with
a finger hearts with his name
she laughs with a ghost of a tear
over how silly she had been
her first kiss hadn't been with such fanfares
and flowing silken robes
but with some handsome lad
who is now lost to the vastness of years
but she still has the picture of her in that dress
standing on the lake shore with shoes in hand
while the carnival spun in the background like a drunken man
whos song has given way to his lament
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Cup cakes are fun
Cup cakes are perfect..
Cute ones, lovely ones..
A mouth watering desserts a lovely decorations..
A bite of a tempting looking cupcake.
Fill your life with joy
Just gazing at one bring a smile on your face...
If i were to make a cupcake today
What flavor would it be?
Would it be chocolate, would it be vanilla?
Would it be strawberry, blueberry or a mixture of both?
Red velvet they say
lets give it a try..
My lovely cupcake
makes me forget the calorie
where are you now?
where has it gone now?
i wish it were here
at the wave of my wand
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
Every year at Christmas
The tree goes by the wall
I drag the **** thing from downstairs
And I tug it down the hall
The lights go up with tinsel
The ornaments and star
Then I go downstairs and knock one back
Behind my little two tap bar
I've done it now for forty years
Each year, the tree and lights
The tinsel and the ornaments
To brighten up the nights
The cards I get go on the wall
No baking do I do
I go downstairs and have a drink
Sometimes I might have two
The kids, not here, they have their lives
I get a call on Christmas Day
It's far to far to come out here
And there's just no room to stay
The boys have hockey, the girls as well
So they won't be coming soon
They play their first game at three
So I get their phone call right at noon
I put my little Cornish hen
In the oven for my meal
I've got some frozen veggies
And a Christmas ******* for the "feel"
I sit alone at Christmas
I watch the telly, have a beer
It's not the same with out you
It's not Christmas, you're not here
Still every year the tree comes out
I put it where you'd say
We'd move it at least fifteen times
Until it found a place to stay
I drag the decorations out
I've not yet bought something new
I'm here alone at Christmas
With my memories spent with you.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.
Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.
The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.
With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.
In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.
Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
I tried telling myself the black smudges around my eyes were decorations only to attract a guy. That the dark purple veins that were reaching to grab a hold of my rough terrain were a symbol of strength and love. And I tried telling myself that telling the truth might actually save me from the fires of Hell.
the fire is raging, and so are my tall tales
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Those flutterbies
Now called butterflies
Flutter as they fly
Dance on the wind
Beneath her skin
Pointed pen
Hard and vibrating
Ink piercing
Bare flesh
Making a monarch of
Her soft muscles
The rainbow of colors
Swirling symmetrically
As she becomes the queen
Of her fairy winged
Decorations
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
The shells lined up nicely.
"At attention," the conch yelled.
He was curled black, with boiled blue spikes.
And so they stayed, in a perfect line against the wall,
until the wave,
washing ashore, it plucked three.
One was an abalone,
almost full grown,
with five holes descending down its left side.
A sheen of gold and silver out,
murky indigo and forest green in.
He lost grip first,
and was pulled into an incoming breaker.
The second was a conch.
Chocolate and vanilla swirls coated the outer layers
leading in to slight pink.
Her name was Neapolitan.
She was once an adult shell of the queen conch,
washed ashore and set into a line by small hands,
that were gentle and soft.
Zander
A soft voice called.
Inhaled by the mouth of the ocean,
exhaled into a bout of seaweed.
She was lost.
The last,
was a cowry shell.
He was old,
or at least he imagined so.
This was not the first time he had washed ashore,
nor had he figured, would it be the last.
His back was ivory white
with brown speckles,
in such a pattern
that he imagined himself to be, at times, a turtle.
He had first felt and then saw reflections of himself in sea glass. He was gathered in a bucket and rubbed so that his design reverberated until he felt, every shimmer of himself.
Knowing not what lay ahead,
but understanding,
he held no grip and went where the ocean led.
It's getting dark Zander.
The others gasped,
in horror their screams rasped.
"Save us. Plea...se he...l...p."
As another wave crashed into the wall and stole four more,
again,
till all were cast away from the wall
to be laden across the expanse of sand.
Soft brown eyes stared,
at the empty holes,
where shells had been placed,
as decorations to a most deserving sand castle.
Turrets and towers,
hard packed by child hands,
with a red flag flapping to the sea breeze.
*A crude skull was drawn,
for it was a pirate fascination that encapsulated this year.*
He had spent hours seeking and finding,
the perfect art,
to be the binding,
to hold his wall against all defense,
but all had fallen in the first wave of battle.
"Oh well," he muttered.
He would try again tomorrow.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
I’ve lived
my entire life
believing that
Home is building
A place where you
get creative with all
your fancy decorations
your fancy candle chandelier lightings
A place where I can cook
all my fancy gourmet meals
While watching my big fancy television
A place with my fancy four car garages
where I can park my fancy toys
Enter , live and lock my fancy twelve foot doors
As I spent all my fancy earnings
Then with a snap of my fingers
one morning I got wised up
I realized I was wrong the entire time
Those fancy things aren’t what
truly makes a home at all
I was wrong
I was broke wrong
Home is the space in between
your heart
Home is wherever I’m with you
Home is wherever love
resides , memories are created
like Instagram photos filling up your heart
And where laughter never ends.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.
Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.
So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.
All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
And I’ll get to fly that way.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops 'retire'
When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
2.6k