"doorbell" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
SNOW FALLS
she wakes
to a morning
with no reason for living
cries in the mirror
to be
forgiven
puts on her make-up
takes off her clothes
sits there & bleeds
until she can’t feel
the blood in her veins
runs cold
the razor blade
bleeds
bleeds
the cat
cries
to be fed
the batteries in her Walkman
go dead
the Rachmaninov stops
a letter
she will never read
drops on the Welcome mat
a mobile
rings & rings &
...stops
a member of
a minor political party
looking for her vote
rings the doorbell twice
slips on the ice & ruins his coat
curses
a man laughs
at another man’s joke
it’s a big laugh...he’s a big bloke
laughter
invades the square
there’s a chill in the air
a friend calls for her
(to go on a blind date)
...she doesn’t hear
snow...
...snow...
...snow falls
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
If i don't rise in blooming spring
Ring the doorbell of the gone
Cut off every string i have
Please unbind my ghost from earth
Shoot me flowers to the moon
Let me know i lived in you
Let me know i mattered once
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 2:05 AM UTC
It's been almost a year
Since we parted ways.
You came to see me in the rain
I threw your flowers in your face
And pushed you away.
You stood there drenched
And watched the light on in my room.
And then turned and walked away.
It's been almost a year
And yet I still love you.
You who made me smile
the boy that drove me nuts.
I miss talking to you,
telling you I want to be with you.
I miss your laugh
when I tell you I need you.
I miss you.
A year and some days
Couldn't lessen the pain.
Of you telling me you loved me no more
but wanted one last night.
I can still feel the sting of my palm
From kissing your cheek with brute strength.
I can feel the rage that fueled selfworth.
I turned and walked away.
I hope you got a good look
Of the last time you will watch me
Walking away with ruthless intent.
When you are alone a year from now
Remember you lost a good thing
and how I loved you.
It's been almost a year
I thought I was done.
But if you rang the doorbell
I would fly into your arms
And forget the past.
Not the love we shared ;
Just the pain.
I still dream about you.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
If home is where the heart is, build me a home in your arms. Make the walls out of your smile and the roof will be your eyes. The sound of the doorbell is the sound of you saying "I miss you darling." The furniture is as comfortable as your hugs. The only downfall is that this home is currently twenty seven miles away.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
A duo as diverse as can be found anywhere
but, once we were together, full of stories to share
Laughter and hardship made us both who we are
And now, to find those two people, is like roping a star
Baseball and cub scouts, standing in as your dad
These were some of the best times that I ever had
I wait for the doorbell, hoping that's where you'll stand
And that the burdens developed are gone with your hand
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And ..what we'll never get
We'd stand with each other in times all gone by
We don't know how to fix this, but, someone should try
We're both so much older and wiser by now
This needs to be fixed up, but neither knows how
Years of missed laughter and growing as friends
Is extended each day, and we should make ammends
Our lives are much different, that much we know
But, we still sons and both brothers, with time left to go
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And...what we'll never get
I wait for the doorbell, and know it's not you
I'm not sure if I found you, just what I would do
The sins of the father, should be put to rest
For our years full of laughter were some of the best
Fishing, and talking, sharing each others dreams
Have been wiped from our minds, at least that's how it seems
We'll always be brothers, right now just in name
We're just stubborn old mules, still playing the game
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And... we're not done yet!!
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.
Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.
Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.
Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
I know of a great door which has no ****
No handle to grip, no doorbell to throb,
Long ages I've sat against its base,
And dreamt of the wonders behind its face.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 1:23 AM UTC
802 Bun Drive
Bun drive in Woolsbury, Horshire
With its crooked sign dripping with water
A doorbell oiled and glistening with an odd feeling of warmth
As if this was done to hide all the beautiful mess underneath
Like when an eraser hides the mistakes one makes
But these mistakes should be highlighted
for they are a part of one's identity
I knocked once but nothing happened
And I thought he may not be home
Welcome I said to myself
Even without a welcome sign or mat
I just knew welcome was to be imagined in our heads
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:47 PM UTC
She's got that air of innocence about her
Untouched, untainted
Draws all the bad boys in.
The bad boys? You know the ones,
Motorcycles and leather jackets,
Cigarettes and black ink tattoos.
And even worse than that
A fickle charm they possess
A good girl they desire, in a pure oh so white dress.
She swears she's not naive -
I know better than that, she says.
The motorcycle stops outside her house.
The leather jacket rings the doorbell
The black ink reaches for her face
And nothing happens.
But he held her gaze for the longest time.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
You have to be careful of what you touch
Everything you ever lay your hands on
Will forever remember the way you held it
Until it fades away into the dust that it came from
The pen will remember how you held it between your fingers
How much pressure you put on it when you wrote her a love letter
Her doorbell will always remember the way your hand shook
The day you took her out for the first time
The passenger side door handle will remember
How your hand was slick with sweat when you tried to open it for her
The fork and knife you used to cut your steak that night
Will remember how you fumbled with them because you were so nervous
The steering wheel will remember how tightly you held it
As you drove her back to her house after dinner
They will always remember every detail of your touch
So think twice before you reach out to her and take her hand
Because when you touch her your fingerprints aren’t only left on the surface
They will sink below the surface of her skin and seep into her blood stream
They will course through her entire body
And just like the pen she will never forget the way you touched her
~W.C.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
I knocked on society’s door,
Hollow footsteps through the crevice of civility,
A ***** welcome mat with a broken doorbell;
No visitors wanted who were not invited,
And understanding was buried under the porch.
In Law’s front yard,
picketed with ire and arrayed with disorder,
Olive branches strewn across dry grass,
lay an empty briefcase marked in leather.
Gavel and irony betrayed her whimsically.
Garden beds in front of Understanding;
Plundered of roses and wanton petals.
Bland stems wilted amongst the weeds.
Relinquished of entitlement; water led
Towards apathy and entropy instead.
A house of Perhaps: vacant,
Open front door to empty rooms.
Leased to opportunity but vacated in days,
Renovations procrastinated; mocked by
The neighbor of dismay and wry.
Ignorance paved a new driveway,
The unanimous watch of Lively Cul-de-sac;
Gated community with hopes of manicured
Lawns and pools. Procreated in the minds
Of not wild men, but surveyors.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
anxiety is building up all your courage to simply tell a waiter or waitress your order
anxiety is dreading to receive gifts because you don't think your reaction will be good enough
anxiety is remaining silent at a family dinner because you're afraid of them judging your every sentence
anxiety is texting someone then wishing you hadn't for fear of them forgetting you ever existed
anxiety is hesitating to ring someone's doorbell for the fear of forgetting what you were going to say
anxiety is spending hours at night practicing conversation for tomorrow to please your friends
anxiety is going over what you're going to say when you raise your hand so you won't mess up for once
anxiety is
me
a.c.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Anorexia was the most attentive
Girlfriend anyone could ask for
And I fell hard for her
I fell for for 500 calories a day,
The sense of control it gave me
Compliments from girls I'd never talked to before
Doctors so pleased that I was finally "healthy"
That feeling,
Of stepping on the scale
And realizing that I took up less space
Than when I'd stepped on the day before
The feeling of water hitting an empty stomach
The hunger pangs
That secretly thrilled me
The thrill of the lies
The ones that became ever so easy
To slip off my tongue
The thrill of a secret love affair with death
I fell for an abuser
I fell...
Literally
Bruises lined my body
From bumping into walls
Because my body was so
Malnourished I couldn't
Walk down a hallway
Fell down a rabbit hole-
Fell down into a world I couldn't escape-
Thigh gaps, thinspiration, tips and tricks to
Hide this wonderland in your head
Walking headfirst into Anorexia was like walking
Into a haunted house
It's fun and exhilarating at first
It's a game, it's harmless
And then you realize that the doors
Are barred and it dawns on you
That ringing the doorbell of death
Was not the best idea
I am a study in skinny does not make you happy
The 5 pounds you wanted to lose
Turns to 10
Turns to 20
Turns to...
I am a study in
Every inch of your body being a warzone
Of standing in front of a mirror
Seeing nothing but a piece of meat
Taking up too much space
I am a study in calculation
I am a study in lying
I am a study in not dead, but not alive
I am a study in starvation
I am a study in falling out of love
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
The unknown city
Enveloped in dark
So black even light would fear
She walks on barely visible
Standing still felt more frightening
She feels numb
She looks down and her legs missing
She see busses and cars
And trams and trains
Being driven by people and their eyes missing
There was sky but weather
There were trees but leaves
There were owls but feathers
There were bats all crying
She wanted to breathe and her nose missing
A strange sound plays somewhere around
Squeaks of abandoned seesaws and laughing clown
Playing an opera of horror
She wants to scream
Her voice choked
An immortal horror takes over
She hears a ring
A doorbell ring
She breaks her sleep
And realize it a dream
The bell kept ringing
She goes to the door
The door won't open
She looks at her bed
She is deep asleep
She shakes her up
She won't wake up
Tears roll on her cheeks her cry was missing
She wants to scream
Her voice was missing
She opens the door
The other side was missing
She turns around
She was missing
In the unknown city
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Being away.
It matters not the specific amount of time.
Constantly I wish that you could just always stay.
Previously feelings of distress and desperation; the rhyme.
HaHa, I am actually surprised that I have not made a shrine.
Although maybe I should have, to help stabilize my emotions; keep them level; in line.
I'm busy tidying my friends' house.
As quiet as a mouse.
The doorbell rings.
The short tune, it sings.
I quickly glide across the freshly cleaned floor.
Drawing back the door.
"Hey!"
"You?...I?....Here?.....AH!......NOWAY! NOWAY! NOWAY!"
Despite my best efforts to self-compose.
I cannot keep the repeating chant at bay.
And judging by the look on your face, it shows.
"HaHa. So Spider Monkey, can I come in or should I just stand out here and let my body decay?"
I pull you over the threshold without delay.
"Whoa! So, I'm guessing that you missed me? Is that safe to say?"
"Hmm?...Let me think...Only more and more with each passing day!!"
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
Party girls don't get hurt
Can't feel anything, when will I learn
I push it down, push it down
I wont get hurt if i pretend
I will never end this charade
I 'm not playing games
I push it down till i turn into a diffrent girl
I'm the one "for a good time call"
Phone's blowin' up, they're ringin' my doorbell
I feel the love, feel the love
I am here, im the one they need
They call me a push me on my knees
They keep calling until i stop feeling anything
but i feel the love
the always needing, always wanting love
[Pre-Chorus]
1,2,3 1,2,3 drink
1,2,3 1,2,3 drink
1,2,3 1,2,3 drink
Throw 'em back, 'til I lose count
Throw em back till i stop dreaming
throw em back till I stop hoping for something better
throw em back till i lose count
[Chorus]
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist
Like it doesn't exist
I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live like i wont wake up tommorow
I'm gonna live like my life isnt a mess
I'm gonna live until i forget what my life is like
I'm gonna wipe my the tears from my eyes
I'm just holding on for tonight
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
I was on bed then clueless about my life.
I remember three years ago, it was a strife.
I was made to realize by pain of being alive.
The procedure of tracheotomy was done.
The other nose was cut into my windpipe.
The lower end of my throat was bandaged.
The two navels are located on my stomach.
The second navel was gained at the hospital.
The upper navel is not always here to be seen.
Blankly I stared at the world in front of me.
Bluntly I stared at a big wall in front of me.
Bleakly I stared at people coming to see me.
They would come few in numbers initially.
That time is something I can't recall clearly.
Then I was home worriedly waiting for him.
The eternal-seeming torture period started then.
The dreaded physiotherapist used to come then.
The kind man was renamed ***physio the ******
He caused me great pain, I was like a 3-year old.
He saw me writhe in pain & I begged for mercy.
He continued coming & I remained terrorized.
I used to ask my parents if they're actually mine.
I was made to disbelieve in them as my parents.
I took numbing pills directly into my stomach.
I used to remain in sheer terror all day long.
I took offence at the sound of the doorbell itself.
I was asking my parents if someone would come.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
Single loads of laundry
sad freezer meals for one
no dishwasher for me
just ice cream by the ton
the never tested voicemail
on the outgoing only phone
one knife, one fork, one plate
signs that yes I live alone
take-out menu fridge door
a doorbell never rung
ipod playlists for the company
that never ever comes
early nights and books
an optimistic queen size bed
a collection of matching pillows
that only ever see my head
the one cup coffee maker
a single slice of toast
bills paid on time or early
nothing handwritten in the post
a will with nothing in it
and no one to leave it to
burial or cremation
I mean really, which would you?
no life insurance needed
retirement arranged
no girlfriend, lover, wife
ex, current or estranged.
Is this the way its headed
if it is I'll pack my trunk
shave my head and dress in orange
move to thailand, be a monk.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:03 PM UTC
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.
So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.
Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy **** I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
there is no new, only renewal:
the space between brain and mind
the harder shell a skulking humanizing container,
the neuronic heart cells,
brain stem and heart bloodstream
scented/stented,
deny the newness of no new claim
the tower of ourselves built on the babble
of old images and read readings,
songs in seconds recognized by just the first two notes,
the point is this when do you become a grownup,
when new is but renewal, with a hint, a pinch,
of a new insight maybe recognized
now, how will you know me new when your eyes
search the iron bank cellar, where,
by voice deep, by fuzzy photographs, what tissues will connect
when the new sight knows me from too many old poems/songs?
!when the babies gather round for lifting up, sky scratching,
when the old man grand father, carries three upon his back,
a nonpareil horsey ride,
when the doorbell rings
I’m older than now, you’ll say,
read your wild mercury back pages,
taking the grays of our mutually curly
Medusa locks as a renewal gift offering
that will someday
match mine!*
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC