"doorbells" poems
It's a plan in itself,
Not an open invitation for suggestions
To go on long walks, or dancing,
Or paint-balling, or take a drive
Down to the beach.
It doesn't mean I am free
To do one of the hundreds of tasks
You decide are more important,
In an attempt to fill my day
With a different kind of meaning.
Today I am doing nothing,
Because I have become lost,
In a world where doing something, anything
Is so expected of ourselves and each other
That simply doing nothing is viewed
As a waste of time.
We so rarely have opportunity
To have the conversations in our heads
That determine who we really are,
As we watch the moments floating past,
Lying under the stars.
Today I am doing nothing,
Please understand that what I desire,
Is silent doorbells, unknocked doors
And that the phone doesn't ring
As I curl up by the fire.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
I remember you
from your beautiful smile
your cinnamon scented hair
your contagious laughter
your nail-biting addiction
your pointless insecurities
to our silly inside jokes
our dumb little fights
our peculiar bets
our goofy text messages
through tears and smiles
you were the only one who understood
my unspoken words
my concealed pain
my unexpressed happiness
my puzzled feelings
counting your days
we recalled our mischievous memories
when we danced in the rain
when we rang doorbells and ran away
when we pranked the gullible ones
when we stole Ikea pencils
when we fangirled over stunning guys
when we were together
everything turn into excitements
moments with you
I remember them all, Grace
it was a week before December twenty-fifth
when the monstrous cells stopped your heart
a glimpse of smile
appeared upon your face
as you're being taken
far away from us
skin turned pale
body stiffened
tears flooded my sight
there were wailing across the room
time flies like a bullet train without you
it's a rainy day today
you've always loved rainy days
sinking my knees in the dew-wet grass
raindrops whisper in my ears
as I brush off the gray snow from your stone
I still remember you, Grace
I still do
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
I had a dream the other day I ran into a doctor, lawyer and a constable,
We came to an agreement that I had lost some part of me and that "I" am totally responsible;
Then I had another dream I ran into a doctor, cousolor and a poet,
We came to an agreement there's certain things you just don't delegate but before then I didn't know it!
So now I'm taking six weeks off and explaining why is basically the moral of this little rhyme,
I have to find that item I lost instead of intertaining getting high and ******* all the time!
There's a lot of back stepping I must do I could have lost it anywhere,
It's a powerful asset I've always had but I lost it somewhere over this past year.
It might be right next to you or me so please look around do you see it?
This is a necessary part of me I really need so I just can't ignore or say so be it.
I must retrace my steps to lead me back to what once led me to here,
To fix that error of my past when I lost the virtue of my despair.
Now a broken bone heals in six weeks and so I think this is a realistic amount of time,
This is a personal excursion I must take because believe me I feel all of your pain combined.
I have to find my virtue the disposition to keep on doing the right thing...
Without my positive attitude the strength and prudence I have just doesn't mean a god ****** thing!
You might miss me a little bit but I plead for you to stay away,
If you don't it doesn't matter cause I'm not answering my phone, texts e-mails nor doorbells anyway.
And if you've learned anything from me you'll listen to me when I say,
Loosing virtue is like jumping off a 55 ft. bridge you'll be hurting every day!
And if like me you ever lose your virtue you'll realize this then too,
You'll go on an excursion just like me this virtue you too you will persue.
Sediment, strength, prudence and wisdom go nowhere as far as prooving who one is,
Without the moral virtue we all have that allows us to make stinky things smell like roses.
Goodbye for now I'll see you soon and for me to do this you ought,
To love yourself much and me much too and for you... to Keep a Wonderful aThought!
Robin Ashley
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
We used to Imagine things...
You and I
and the kids down the street
We used to ring doorbells
and scrape knees
and look for treasures in the backyard
We would eat dinner
with only the lights on
and talk about how good the potatoes were
We would tell stories
run barefoot
and catch lightning bugs in a big glass jar
remember jumping in leaves?
rolling up snowmen?
and looking forward to the sweet smell of summer?
I remember.
We were young
it was easy
it's not so easy anymore.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
Aries bound I need boundaries
Not to be the rebound
but I believe things beyond
and so work with some stupid clock
but we all do that do we not?
not astrology - though logically
there has got to be some piece of you in me
or some "one" that we all come from
and pull on the long robe of
when we find ourselves in need of love
What doorbells and picture frame
take me behind the scenes -
to the make-up and gossip of God's escapades?
of course times of a willing wage; both the wars and lustful ways
in a club he slapped the room with a rage- as the beat grows fonder
and more closely - immediately forgotten
even as it just begins
but of course only after, reminisce
with our pure imagination
the scenic route with a violin
whether its out or just come in
or **** like the economical loot
depending how you chose to hear it
and you can still choose
certainly the sounds that aren't there
that we think count like the accents
that shape a world of difference
is it enough for you to redo
I find too often I smile with a frown
I am a boundary but still Aries bound
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
#
***The twilight clouds
went scudding past
like witches on their brooms.
The sound of laughter
filled the night
as ghouls departed tombs.
"Trick or treat!"
resounded
as menageries filed by...
Filling up their bags with loot
while candy stores ran dry.
Dentists filled appointments books
in brisk anticipation...
Knowing that enamel
would not stand
such laceration.
Zombies stagger down the street
and vampires trip on capes.
Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles,
Frankenstein escapes!
Princesses and knights with swords,
mummies by the score...
Ghosts and goblins saunter by
and darkened homes ignore.
Masks of every shape and type
monsters and the like...
Arriving via motor pool
on foot, skateboard and bike.
Kids of every age invade
demanding tribute thus...
(Oh dear...
here comes another group
arriving on a bus.)
People donning hobo clothes
adorned in eye-holed sheets...
Wearing out the doorbells
on the darkened,
porch lit streets.
Jack o lanterns
hiss and spit
as candles soon expire.
Children head back home
to count their swag
and then retire.
At last
the tempest peters out.
The pageantry is gone.
I look out
at the candy wrappers
littering the lawn.
Another Halloween is done.
I hope they had their fill.
"Trick or treat!"
still resonates
I hear its echoes still.
But... just around the corner
as Thanksgiving season nears...
We hear the spiels and ads
of all the rabid marketeers.
Turkeys gobble restlessly
at axes sharp and keen...
For them...
this is a nightmare...
just another Halloween.***
#
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
This season is
Memories of kids whipping past
blowing dead leaves on bikewheels
with hoodies hung upwards and
Horror fiend masks.
A ringing of doorbells and delighted
screams rushing forwards
and "Trick or Treat" plunging
like fallen bobbed apples
into concuspiscent ears.
With the Moon bearing high
its dominance of silver contrast
and sandsmoke grimaces
on a clandestine land, ***** for mischief.
All fairytales begin
with a break-up of the family
I'm convinced
All Horror stories
are a crying out
for old friendships to re-emerge
after the gist of mortality
begins to sink in.
And from when I was a teen
most of my friendships, for better or worse,
have centred around attaching my darker thoughts
to something concrete: like a list of favorite author's work
or a poster of Robert Smith on my bedroom wall
claiming knowledge to a world established around my own
The stirring fire to keep on going, after waking up on frostbitten mornings
is not a need to impress with the sense
of my own self-determined
trudging through rain and seeking
lofty self-reward
...But in finding people
to share the walk home with
bounce Cure lyrics back and forth with
and who'll simmer down to a horror film
(without insisting on my recommendation)
at Halloween.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
My mother likes to hang bells
On the front door,
And I always wondered
What they were for.
They would jingle
Whenever someone
made entry,
and glitter
With the light
from the lamppost
On the street.
But they became dull
Hanging all day,
And the giggling clatter
Mulled and dulled
to a brassy bray.
Mom has a small wedding bell
Of a silver boy
Holding flowers
With a smiling grin.
He’s asking her to ring him
And bring back memories.
But father’s guitar glistens
Whilst the sun lays low.
With one pluck
The vibration hums
Smooth and mellow.
But can you hear it
Sitting on the steps?
This house is so large
But there still lays unrest.
And through The corridor
Clacks the patter
Of greyed canine feet.
But some of us
Lay silent
And reap the past
From the sounds
That do dare speak.
the living room clock
Drones with That of a distant chime,
Because the living arrangements
Have changed overtime.
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
It’s about my husband Alex,
He’s a truly wonderful man
But I fear Alex has gone
For a trip to Wonderland.
He works hard, and long
But lost some of his grip
On reality as it really is
And seems to be on a trip.
Ice trays that fill themselves,
Self-closing cupboard doors,
And magic laundry chutes
That puts clothes back in drawers
Ketchup bottles with 1/10th ounce
And leftovers never consumed.
And of course automobiles
Driven but never get tuned.
In Alex’s fantasyland
He lives across a chasm
Where only he gets hungry
Or gets to have an ******
He doesn’t answer doorbells
Or incoming calls on the phone.
And, when he’s watching games
He is demands to be left alone.
Presents given out by him
In his fairy tale existence
Are often gift certificates
After a round of insistence.
And, don’t ask my husband
For the date of our anniversary
Or the dates our children
Showed up in the nursery.
I am only mentioning all this
Because I totally understand.
I have read quite a few books.
I have been to Disneyland.
But what I don’t understand
And can’t get into my head
Is why he hasn’t heard me yet,
Or a ****** word I have said.
It isn’t like I haven’t complained
Or told him what I wanted.
But he looks around like maybe
He thinks the house is haunted,
Because he is hearing voices
That he can’t quite understand.
See? What did I tell you?
Alex lives in Wonderland!
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
Splinters, blisters.
Losers, winners.
Saints and sinners.
"Come in for dinner" s
It's where we learned to socialise.
Our very own sovereign land
zero politics
and conflicts always solved
hand to hand.
Loud junctions juxtaposed
against our little corner of paradise
motorists peering in when they stop at that red light.
Ringing on doorbells, buzzing on intercoms
The anticipation
to hear whether your friend was home or not.
Colourblind kids with the most vivid sight.
Retrieving footballs under parked cars
was the extent of our plights.
I didn't know where the world would take us
or the type of people it would make us,
but something I learned from a young age
is that the rest of the world isn't like
Gooseacre.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 12:24 PM UTC
The walls are vibrating
with sweat pouring
my artificial heartbeat
is the recorded sounds
of feet taking flight up sidewalk runways
pouring with sweat
heart exploding
and maybe if it does
I can get something on the page
for you magnificent sons of *******
but my appetite will be vanquished
in t-minus one hour
the extended release of last nights beer
and smoke permeating through skin
blow it in the air
to show the trip wires
my desk chair dusty and lifeless for too long
“how’s the writing going, Harry?”
about as well as when poets try to be real people -
so a lot of complaining and selfish procrastination -
but my crosshairs are all aligned
trigger finger itchy
the sarcastic, ***** dropout, “just rolled out of bed”
cynical wordsmith
with a chipper chip on my shoulder
and just like lays you can’t just have one
so I’m quick to 86 any competition
who are too quick to toe over my line
you don’t wake a hibernating bear
and you certainly don’t poke the starving wolf
when the grease from last night’s dinner
coats your skin like slime
my hands are shaking
and homework is due by the start of class yesterday
But I’ll be fine, Ma
I’ve got a mouth full of big talk
and eyes full of short sighted leaps of faith
my soul blows through alleys, avenues, and storm drains
and it tastes just like little kid medicine
something artificially sweet masking the bitterness
When I was a little **** -
making dens, kicking cans, and ringing doorbells -
they told me I could be anything
except tall enough to ride all the good roller coasters
so now, I’m a carnie in a booth
getting revenge on the world
by ignoring all the kids screaming
for me to stop the ride
I’m no artist
far cry from a poet
I’m a kid, too smart for his own good
too dumb to know better
to confused to guess at the ending
of this movie
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
I painted the bedposts and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard, the outlet occupied
by a power cord, the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the brick wall,
the bush outside, the sidewalks, the brick,
the steel fences separating traffic
babble from pedestrian small talk,
then filled the wall in, gave the oak posts
enough depth to hold up four coats,
a backpack, and a shoe lace, swirled
in the condoms and coffee rings
inside the microwave, sketched a Sears
Apple-Jack-colored record player plugged
in, turning dusted Beatles records
like the cosmos, like the snow, squirrel-
hair, and leather-leaf bush outside.
I masked off the concrete, the asphalt,
and construction yard sidewalks,
penciling dead mosquitoes in the cracks
and $2.39 Rock Salt Slush along the edges.
I measured the fence, so each stake hit
the vanishing point like cigarette butts
in cement cereal bowls of cat litter.
But I ran out of paint before I could fill
the mouths of motorist **** yous*,
the car barks chasing dogs
to the chain-link guard rail,
doorbells and mailbox flags
being flipped up, pay phones
clashing on metal receivers,
church bells, footsteps,
some guy breathing,
and a red-light button Wait.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
We still have the summer
that we spent together
before you went to college
the nights we spent
drunk on the beach
you with your guitar
me with my smile
as the surf licked our feet
the times we spent
hip to hip
looking at the stars
on that patch of private grass
down the street from your house
all the times spent
wagging our chins
about whatever came to mind
we will always have the summer
We still have the summer
when the leaves outside my window
turn crisp brown, apple red, and gold
when the school bell rings
like the doorbells
opened upon
kids trying to make five bucks
When summer's lingering heat
beings to chill
and we are once again visited
by the ghosts of our breath
We will always have the summer
We still have the summer
when winter comes along
and maybe if we're lucky
it'll be a white Christmas
but this is Richmond
so probably not
but I hope we do
the city looks so pretty
all lit up on a snowy night
We will always have the summer
We still have the summer
when our birthday month rolls around
a couple of April fools
laughing our ***** off
When new life springs out
from all around
and the spring showers
turns the early morning grass
into a field of stars
or a Caribbean sea
meeting a setting sun
and the birds sing their pretty little hearts out
just like you
We will always have the summer
And when summer comes round again
maybe I will see you
not a care in the world
a world's worth of meaning
maybe we will go back to that beach
the sun and salt
turning our skin to leather
until we look like a couple
of Florida retirees
happy and wrinkled
Maybe
we can gaze up at the stars
or your ceiling fan
It really doesn't matter
Maybe these things will happen
maybe not
I find comfort
in knowing
that I will always have that summer
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Taking walks. Daydreaming. Stickers. School Spirit. My friends. Living in a small town. Japan. Singing. Painting my toenails. Pranks/ practical jokes. Painting. Stretch canvas. Costumes. Dipping my fingers in melted wax. Style. Soda. Spending an hour typing at a coffee shop. Musicals. Back to school season. Mopeds. Good hair days. Naps. Not walking up but looking at a beautiful staircase. being alone. My ankles. Playlists. Spending entire days in pajamas. Holidays. Telling stories. Spontaneity. Theme parks. Bookshelves. The word copacetic. Boxes. Empty journals. Surprises. Doing things in groups. Doing things alone. Getting real mail. Decorating. Small forks. A good hug. Gift cards. New Years Goals. Going out to dinner. When someone else remembers some great story about me/us that I’ve forgotten. Toy stores. Fireplaces. Breakfast foods. Journaling. Crying for a good reason. Doorbells. Pointless adventures. My birthday. Reasons to make wishes
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
It was the only year that I got fat
From eating chocolate bars that my mother bought with the left over EBT cash
That way when she did my laundry
she could get mad about the
Chocolate stains on my sleeves
So I ate until I got sick
And bled until I passed out
It was the year that hangs heavy in the hallows of my heart
The same year of my second suicide attempt
You should know this
I know the crash of the gallows hangin’ from your shoulders
Sends thunder through your ears
I know the angel that’s supposed to sit on the other
Looks like a gargoyle sometimes
I know there are days where
You freeze up
Locked in place until someone finally touches you
There were words trapped underneath my skin
So I cut them out
So I could finally makes sense
Of the irregular morse code of my heart beat
There were words comin’ out of my mouth
Always the wrong words
So I tried to lasso my throat shut
What you should know is
There will always be days where gravity tries to trap you here
It’s why I ring doorbells all the time
My angel needs its wings
I want your angel to have its wings
This year
This is the year that
I find the words
To explain to you what my heart’s been sayin’
The year the gallows no longer crash
The year my angel gets its wings
If you didn’t know this before
You are so perfect
You are so amazing
Your smile is amazing
On the days you are happy to see me
I swear I could take your cheeks sailing
We never needed the words
To explain what my heart's been saying
At any given moment
As long as I am breathing
There’s a guy
Thumbin’ doorbells as desperate as impatience
Teary eyed and trembling
Just trying
To get you back your wings
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC
he made me
stand still
that was
THE thing
not adrift on passé
or futuristic projectings
not jumping rope
on hyped-up think strings
all of me
paused
to feel all of him
every inner switch
flicked on forever
KC lights streaming
yepyepyep
wired spinefire
warming its way
to burst through skin
invisible firecrackers
jumpstarting the air
revolt from suffocating
we were
whereverthefuck
together
(+ think we dropped pins in)
all molecules at ATTN
his lip blueprints existing
eternal in my synaptic tracks
beyond the say breathes
the evermore of listen
eardrum heartstrum
empathic rhythm
his brainfire ringing
my threshold doorbells
syntactic turrets spitting
direct hits beyond ramparts
into unshuttered windows
bizarro blurbs
wrap me uppers
10,000 suction cup tentacles
asphyxiating the cloak of me
skinning and bonding me
to particles of matterthings
self-conscious and judgment
marked absent
we resounded here!
but no hands in the air
to Be seen
sensory nonsense pitterpatters
into where All is found lost
to hallowed delights
except for the realies
don't ******** that ****
it's my cryptonite
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
The buzzing of the bees,
The flitter- twitters of the butterflies,
The cuckoo of the roster and
The oinking of the pigs.
The ringing of the doorbells,
The beeping of the alarm,
The fizzing of the soft drinks and
The sizzling of the hot oil.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
I can see you
I can't feel you
I imagine your voice
I imagine your smile
You are like a mirage
A look and you're gone
I started roaming streets
I started ringing doorbells
I don't know where you are
I'm stuck in a jar
A jar of hope unknown
Sometimes I wonder why all this
Just because of a glimpse!
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
I became accustomed to the simple life. To the way that boys liked it when I ran my fingers through their hair and toyed with their belts. The way that coffee tasted dull without sugar, and the way that the newspaper was always delivered at three minutes past seven. Doorbells all had the same melody and I was required to tip the waiter seventeen percent of the bill.
And that's why you scared me. Because complexity followed you like the smoky tail of a cigarette, always near and entirely ungraspable. I couldn't see you as simple, and I was frightened yet intrigued by the way that you reminded me of the ocean; swallowing both the moon and the sun in the same day.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
Door slams, you’re gone.
Silence becomes my apartment.
With the exception of the rain,
I only hear my own thoughts.
They’re killing me.
I don’t know how to be here, in this space.
I don’t know how to be here, looking you in the face.
Feeling no love, but giving all I have.
I don’t know how to be here.
No contact or apologies or doorbells.
Are you gone for good?
Maybe it’s better this way.
We fight almost everyday.
I’m not sure if you love me the way you say you do.
I don’t know how to be here, in this space.
I don’t know how to be here, looking you in the face.
Feeling no love, but giving all I have.
I don’t know how to be here.
My mind is cluttered with memories, good and bad.
My heart- empty and my soul- confused.
You’ve given me happiness and utter heartbreak at the same time.
Whatever you gave, I accepted anxiously.
Until you took it all away from me.
I don’t know how to be here, I don’t know how to be here.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC