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M Dec 2012
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You shed tears.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You curse out loud, give voice to your fears.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You think of all of the things you haven't done yet.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You ask Him if this is a safe bet.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You dream of the day you'll be free.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You just try to stay calm and breathe.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You're afraid of falling asleep.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You know what you want others to keep.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
There are people you want to forgive.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You wonder how long you're going to live.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You loathe what you can't control.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
No matter how many blankets you pile on, will you still feel cold?

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You remember your first kiss.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You understand you'll always be missed.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You struggle with regular tasks.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
Your face no longer resembles an emotionless mask.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You let your emotions show.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You think about the time you'll have to go.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You're satisfied with your life.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
Is there anything you'd be willing to sacrifice?

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You stare a yourself in the full length mirror.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You wonder when answers will become clearer.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You think of your loved ones.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You reminisce on hunting and guns.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
Your parents talk to you.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You just want to start anew.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You stay optimistic.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You let it all go and become ballistic.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You're tired of taking all the pills.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
You feel death's constant chill.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You read like you always have.
I wonder if behind closed doors,
This all makes you ****** mad.

I wonder if behind closed doors,
You fall to your knees and pray.
I know that behind closed doors,
We're all happy you're here today.

When you go, open my closed doors,
And please watch over me.
Because when I'm behind a closed door,
I'll be waiting for you to comfort me.
This was written in April of 2011. My grandpa was sick with lung cancer, and my mom spent a lot of time down at his house taking care of him and taking him to appointments. He lived two hours away, so my mom basically lived there while he was sick. I would occasionally come and stay with them to keep them company.
My grandpa was a no-nonsense man. He was straightforward and generally unemotional from what I'd seen. He was so giving and handy, and he though I couldn't always tell he was so loving too.
My mom, her brother, my grandpa and I went to a check-up meeting at Kaiser and the doctor basically gave us more bad news. They affirmed that the cancer had spread, and my grandpa's chances of beating the cancer were slim. He didn't react much from what I remembered, and I thought to myself, "He can't always be so calm. He has to feel something. He has to be different behind closed doors." This thought created the idea for my poem.
He died about a month later, and I read this at his memorial. It was the hardest public speaking incident I have ever done to date, and the most rewarding.
Enticing us in, sugar coated doors

for sticky fingers,

Doors of mystery, keep out, staff only

nettled in barbed wire.

Half open doors full of promise,

chocolate soft centred

Exciting doors, silk covered

in lace suspenders

Inspiring doors, Leonardo bold italic,

uppercase only

Lonely doors all shuttered in silence,

cobweb covered

Sad doors, tear stained

and umbrella wet

Happy doors,

candy striped in laughter

Forbidden doors, Pandora boxed,

best kept locked

Revolving doors covered

with the same sticky mistakes

Trap doors crocodile sprung

to catch you out

Doors that slide on tram like runners,

buffered into walls with imprint of face

Secret doors of camouflaged chameleon

Troubled doors

thunder clapped in turmoil

Doors enticing us.
nivek Mar 2015
doors, so many doors
and sometimes no door at all
Jim Morrison and the band of Doors'
doors sounds so other than a door
how many doors have slammed shut
how many doors still to open
doors, doors, doors, doors, doors, doors
I LOVE him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips
And she formed his name on her tongue and sang
And she sent him word she loved him so much,
So much, and death was nothing; work, art, home,
All was nothing if her love for him was not first
Of all; the patter of her lips ran, I love him,
I love him; and he knew the doors that opened
Into doors and more doors, no end of doors,
And full length mirrors doubling and tripling
The apparitions of doors: circling corridors of
Looking glasses and doors, some with knobs, some
With no knobs, some opening slow to a heavy push,
And some jumping open at a touch and a hello.
And he knew if he so wished he could follow her
Swift running through circles of doors, hearing
Sometimes her whisper, I love him, I love him,
And sometimes only a high chaser of laughter
Somewhere five or ten doors ahead or five or ten
Doors behind, or chittering h-st, h-st, among corners
Of the tall full-length dusty looking glasses.
I love, I love, I love, she sang short and quick in
High thin beaten soprano and he knew the meanings,
The high chaser of laughter, the doors on doors
And the looking glasses, the room to room hunt,
The ends opening into new ends always.
Daisy Fields May 2011
there are in my opinion 2 differet types of doors of perception in the human mind.
the doors to darkness & the doors to light.
the doors to light have always been in everyone,
but the doors to darkness were built in our minds to confuse & control us.

everytime a door of perception closes a new one will open in it's place.
& i find that for every dark door you close 2 or more doors to light open.

when you shut the door to government the doors to real freedom, real privacy, & real truth opens.
how can we really feel free in the relaity we are in now?
we all have a false sense of freedom, to think, speak, & act,
but really nothing is free anymore, everything will cost you something.
how can you truley believe we are free when there are so many laws, rules, and confinments & so much we have no say in.
human's don't need laws or bibles or police to tell us what to do,
we have the sense of right & wrong built into us.
we know what is good or bad by how they make us feel,
and we all generally feel in the same ways.
with laws in place we don't take the time to really think about how our actions will make others feel we have alredy been told & there is no need for further thought.
also, people i find always have the tendacy to want to do what they can't do.
if you tell them they can't do things, they're gonna try.
so are jails filled with bad people, or freedom fighters?
people rebeling against the law.
we are living in a dark reality.

let in the light.

when you close the door to media you open the doors to true beauty, to inner beauty, to self love & to self acceptance.
how can one see real beauty in such a fake reality.
in people today judgement, cliques & suicides are at an all time high,
self confidence & self worth is at an all time low .
people judge people based on how they look, & what they're wearing.
they form opions of others without even talking to them.
we should love & celebrate our differences, not hate & divide them.
you could miss out on meeting an amazing person because you are so blind to real beauty.
think about all the things great things people don't know about you,
now think about all the great things you don't know about other people.
we are living in a dark reality.

let in the light.

when you close the door to technology, you open the doors to unity, to true connection with others, & to real experiences.
in our technological relaity we live in the illusion that technology is bringing us closer,
and that we are becomming more inter webbed to eachother when we humans have the capabilites to establish these connections without help.
we are like robots, expressing emotions based on how we are told/suppose to react, not because we are really feeling.
instead of going out to explore & expierence life, nature, & new relationships,we stay at home and watch them on t.v.
instead of talking to someone, visiting someone, spending time wth someone, we connect with them threw computer screens, facebook profiles & emotionless txts.
where is the connection?
we are living in a dark reality.

let in the light.

when you close the door to money the door to free trade open.
to a reality where we help other not for money or for benifit
just to help another human bening like yourself,
just because it feels right, it feels good.
the reality we live in now is one with fake, bought happiness & of selfishness.
we try to make ourselves happy with big homes and nice cars and expensive things when we don't need them.
true, pure happiness comes from the love of others, from helping, giving, sharing,
& from making others happy as well.
nobody can take that kind of happiness from you ever.
we are living in a dark reality.

let in the light.

when you shut the door to war & violence the doors to peace opens.
the door to equality, to harmony to love.
to a reality where we work out our differences with words & not wepons,
it doesn't require money, or casual deaths.
how can we use the term casual deaths?
let's take a look into this relaity for a moment...
there was a solider in iraq who ran into a home & killed a man in front of his wife & kids.
this man was killed because he had weapons in his home which was viewed as a threat or possible terrorist.
in actuallity the man was not planning any attack at all he merely had thoes weapon to protect himself & his innocent family in the case of a home invasion.
back in the soliders home town a man wakes up in the middle of the night because he hears glass break. he grabs a wepon that he has in case of emergency to protect his family and goes to investigate. he walks in on a man intruding in his home, the man has a knife, the dad shoots him dead.
on the same day as the solider get his medal for killing an innocent man the dad gets sentenced to life in prision for trying to protect his family.
who is the real hero, who really deserves a medal, the solider or the man?
i guess ****** is a heroic thing if your doing it for the government..
we are living in a dark reality.

let in the light.

when you close the door to religion you open the door to wonder, curiosity, and exploration.
to a relaity with less division & less disagreements.
where does all that money go to?
certinly not space exploration.
i strongly believe that by giving into the idea of god you giving into the idea of there being a higher power in anything race, gender, religion, ect.
i also believe that because of this and the idea of god it has created this huge power struggle all over the world of people trying to own/run the world.
people trying to be god/godly.
these are the most powerful people in the world right now.
and it is thoes people who have place these dark doors in our heads.
and who are constantly watching, and making sure the doors stayed open and all other doors stayed shut.
but we have the power to.
we are all god.
& we all have the power to view the world in any way we want it, heavenly or hellish
.'god created the world with his vision'
change god into we,
'we created the world with our vision.'
'god has the power to change everything'
'WE have the power to change everything'
but as of right now we are living in the dark.

so let's let in the light.
& let it shine threw every pore, every breath, every thought we have.
let it ignite us, & drive us to great heights.

don't live & act based on how you look to others/god/ect.
live & act based on how your feel inside.

don't have an idea of who you are,
know who you are.
live for yourself, not for anyone els.

i want real words & thoughts
i want real freedom & truth
i want real faces & emotion
i want real experiences & places
i want real peace & equality
i want real people
i want real happiness
i want real connections
real love, real light, real laughter, real life.

we can make things real again, just don't be afraid, don't be lazy, don't be doubtful, don't be fake.
RW Dennen Aug 2014
Smashing boots on doors,
splinters fall like rain.
Smashing boots on doors,
children feel the pain.
Smashing boots on doors,
granny's years of age.
Smashing boots on doors,
Mom and Dad in rage.
Smashing boots on doors,
panic sets the stage.
Smashing boots on doors,
Iraqi freedom fades.
Smashing boots on doors,
like thunder in a storm.
Smashing boots on doors,
an innocent family torn.
Smashing boots on doors,
a brand new hatred born.

RW Dennen  (c)  11/24/09
As I say war is not a natural state of man. In the year 2004
the insurgents were spilling over Iran into Iraq around border towns. This was one of the low points for our forces,
we were losing soldiers fast. I know that our troops or at least most were forced to do this. Because tracing an enemy
was most impossible and most acted in defence. This act must have traumatized a lot of our troops. Because by nature
most are good kids. They're kids to me because I'm 74.
(Not to be condocending) Thank you, go with peace.
Jasmyn 'Ladi J' Jun 2013
Doors opening
Doors closing
Doors opening
Doors closing
Better get there in time cuz you will miss your train
Confusing your brain
Making you insane
Time is the key to success
Making you blessed
Obsess tryna make it to my destination
Fabrication of reality
Doors opening
Doors closing
To my train that will take me where I wanna be
I sit as I ride
Tryna abide by the rules
Can't feel like I'm ridin on a mule
Put on the air
I wanna be able to enjoy my ride
Don't have people bothering me
This train has a collection of diversity
Controversy all the time
So I jus sit like a mime
As I listen to
Doors opening
Doors closing
Doors opening
Doors closing
shelby marie Dec 2013
behind closed doors, no one can see,
the pain locked behind closed doors lies;
broken hope and shattered dreams,
behind closed doors is living death,
it'll take your heart as you gulp your
last breath

behind closed doors, no one can see,
the lies I've become that have made me,
behind these doors holds my fear, every
thought and every tear...

behind closed doors is every lie,
every failed love and eternity,
behind closed doors, lies a broken me,
a broken girl, with broken dreams...

this is me...

behind every closed door is;
one waiting to be opened,
filled with one dream realized,
and one dream broken...

and now... I'm a broken girl,
with broken dreams...
Meg Goodfellow Dec 2014
I wondered if the doors in your house lock by themselves because they know you’ll be too drunk to do it later. Maybe they know you like to keep your secrets locked away behind closed doors, so you don't have to admit to them; As it is easier to explain the absent of truth when there are lies to fill in the gaps.

From a young age I learnt to appreciate silence, as your nights brought a storm of yells and screams as my mother fought with words but you fought with a bottle and a wine glass. I wonder if the man at the bottle shop knew your order before you even walked through the doors, as you became quite the regular.

I wonder if my mother went to bed and cried the night she found bottles stashed away in the attic where nobody was suppose to find them; But almost six years after you left,  there they were. Maybe closed doors weren’t enough to keep your secrets locked away so you had to hide them in the attic, among family photos and old rusted bed frames.

I wonder if the sound of slamming doors still haunt my sisters ears. For they heard you leave in drunken anger, in the dead of night, to who-knows where.

I wonder if you ever thought of coming back; But I guess alcohol acted as a better family then we ever did because at least bottles don’t think, or have feelings and broken hearts.

I wonder if you’ll ever get the smell of alcohol out of your hair or from under your skin, and I wonder if you will ever keep the promises you once made me; But I guess my calls for help were nothing more than the soundtrack of a late night television show, left on as you fell asleep on the couch; red wine staining the carpet, leaving a tattooted mark as a reminder, telling those that you’d been here.

I wonder what it felt like when you realised, as children, we once replaced you beer with milky-water because we didn’t want daddy drinking anymore; Or what about the time when we threw out your tobacco. I  remember you sent us to our rooms, and shut the door behide you.

I wonder if you remember the time we went fishing and I asked you about the ocean. You explained that the ocean was like a human mind; so beautiful and clear,  yet deep and mysterious and that if I was to learn one thing in life, it was to never judge a person at first glance because just like the surface of the ocean, they only reflect the world around them. So I never judged you. I tried to understand you, but how was I  suppose to understand you when you kept closing doors in my face and threatening me with padlocks and lost keys?

I grew up learning to place my ears against the doors of your mind and try to arrange the puzzle pieces of your thoughts in an attempt to somehow create an image; But all I got was an unfinished picture with missing pieces.

I wonder if you remember the day I stopped visiting you because it was too hard packing my feelings into a suitcase and lugging them back and forth. I often wonder if you hated it that I didn’t call your house "home" or spent most of my time there, alone, outside because I didn’t like closed doors.

I remember once I  asked you why you drank so much. You said you liked the taste. I guess you also liked the heart break that comes with it, and the loneliness.

I wonder if you remember the night you got so blinded drunk you fell alseep on your bed with your pride by your side, waiting for my memory to pick it up and throw it out the window. I wonder if you remember I turned off the radio and let the silence tuck you in and the darkness sing you lullabies. I wonder if you remember I quietly closed the door behind me as I left;
Leaving another locked door;
With a deadly secret inside.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Poetic T May 2014
Doors open doors closed some
open to happiness others to
misery untold.

We may keep the door closed
never seeing what changes
what are decision may unfold.

But doors that are opened, some
times a surprise, same times
happiness that wouldn't have
been found if left that door left

There are doors opened, there
are some doors that are for
reasons to the person left

But to each they must choose
if they want to open or leave
it closed.
Behind closed doors
You are,
no more,
able to see,
or just,

Behind closed doors
Only to confront,
your fears,
Or, cry away,
those tears,

Behind closed doors
It is,
Take this/the time,
to look,
inside yourself,
and focus,
on the things,
you can do,

Behind closed doors
You, can,
make that change.
You, realize,
those things,
won’t (ever),
be the same.

Behind closed doors
Reality hits,
You appreciate,
more of the things,
that you miss,
when it’s,

Behind closed doors
Praying that,
you will,
stay strong,
may this,
time be,
for you,
to heal.
From all,
the things,
that happened/
went wrong,

Behind closed doors
To all,
whom are struggling,
to all,
that are suffering.
We are,
all thinking,

Behind closed doors
I/we prey,
and wish,
the very best,

During these times
Behind those closed doors
When it’s,

-Behind those closed doors.

© By HF-Whisper
26/5/2021 1:20PM
Kayla Bellinger Jul 2014
People like doors
And people are like doors.

People like to be open
To new people and
New experiences.

People like to be closed
So they can keep themselves
Free of unruly things like
Feelings and protect themselves
From getting hurt.

People like to open doors
To new opportunities and
Things that will make them feel secure
Or jettison them into success.

People like to close doors
Behind them so that you can't follow
When they decide that you're not good enough
And walk away from you.
jake aller Apr 2020
April 13 Poems

I believe in ghosts

I used to not believe
in ghosts or spirits
or supernatural phenomenon

at least
i used to be
quite skeptical

but I have had
some weird encounters
over the years

so now perhaps
I do believe
that ghosts might be real

I have had supernatural
things that defy my understanding

back in 1992
My Korean Uncle-in-law died
and the family hired a shaman

did a traditional shaman ritual
the shaman came out
a middle age woman

she started speaking
in my uncle’s voice
and she nailed it

she channeled his spirit
and his abrasive personality
even looked like him

freak me and my wife out
had to leave the scene
just too freaky real

and ever since then
I have become a believer
in ghosts and spirits

they are all around us
some of us can sense them
many of us are blind to them

but I now believe in Ghosts
but I wonder if ghosts
believe in me?

writers digest spirit poem  based on a true story
today’s doodle poem

one day
Jake contemplated
his fate

death is staring at him
fear of the corona virus
death and chaos all around

he thought to himself
death comes to us all
he went for a walk

in the woods
thinking to himself
far out man

it is all out of sight
love makes the world
go around

and so Jake
thought back to the date
that he met his fate

on that date his wife
walked out of his dreams
and into his life

Jake truly
met his fate
on that date

Poetry Super Highway Doodle Poem


in this world
we are living
behind our own doors

we are closed down
living in fear
behind our doors

those outside our doors
are potentially deadly
disease carriers

so we hunker down
at home behind our doors
afraid of everyone

and the fear
continues unabated
as we watch the news

and see the dead
all around us
outside our doors daily dew drop prompt - write a poem about Doors
what I know Trois-par-Huit

hot  coffee
love coffee

every day I must have my coffee in morning
without I will soon become engage in desperate mourning
for my last cup of hot as hell joe
fills me with love my joe c
what I know

Writing. com Trois Par Huit Poem

things that bug me
there are many things 
that bug me 
in this world of ours

here are a few 
of my favorite things
to be annoyed about 

double dealing
back stabbing

fake Christians
fake friends 
fake calls
fake things
about fake news

all poetry contest pet peeves

I sang the lockdown blues

when the corona virus
began to spread
around the world
I sang the lockdown blues

I was stuck in Korea
which was for a while
one of the containment zones
I sang the lockdown blues

but now it seems
that Korea is on the way
to containing the virus
I sang the lockdown blues

I am afraid
very afraid of the future
but I know that it was best
I sang the lockdown blues

one day soon
I hope and trust
that it will be safe
until then we will still say
I sang the lockdown blues

all poetry corona refrain poem?Purpose of my Life

I often think about life
and how I met my wife

I often think
about the purpose
of my life

I often wonder
whether I was put here
for the purpose
of meeting my wife

when I met her
I was adrift
lost in my despair
not seeing a path
forward in my life

I was wallowing
in my self misery

then one day
my dreams came true
she walked out of my dreams
and into wife

and I found my purpose
the meaning of my life
was clear to me

I woke up with hope
and realize
that all I needed
was her love

and she gave me
the purpose
of my life
when she became
my wife

writer digest write a purpose poem
We Did Not Take Action to Start a War

it is a sad date
when we meet out fate
and realize the the president
the leader of the U.S.

is turning into a gangster leader
threatening massive destruction
on Iran and other countries
including destroying cultural sites

not too long ago
such actions was condemned
by the United States and the world  
as long as ISIS and others did it

but if Trump does it
it is suddenly okay
because the President declares it
although it is a war crime

telegraphing our moves
telling our enemies
what we are planing
with every presidential tweet

the act of a truly stable genius
who will go down in history
as one of the greatest presidents
we have ever seen in world history

the president announcing that
he  took action to start a war
claiming he did it to stop a war
tweeting more lies about that

is a wonder to behold the constant lies
every word is demonstrably false
American democracy dies
the darkness grows and is not false

We are now collectively  
going down the Orwellian rabbit hole
who know where it will end
American democracy continues to die

our dear leader constantly lies
greatest president in history
screws forth nonstop lies
American democracy dies

our spineless leaders applaud
American democracy dies
a million deaths
As the President  tweets lies

revised poem per poetry superhighway prompt

original poem We Did Not Take Action to Start a War
(not for publication)

it is a sad day
in the world of ours
the the leader
of the U.S.

is turning into a gangster leader
threatening massive destruction
on Iran and other countries
including destroying cultural sites

not too long ago
such actions was condemned
by the United States
as long as ISIS and others did it

but if Trump does it
it is suddenly okay
although it is a war crime

and telegraphing our moves
telling our enemies
what we are planing

that is the act
of a truly stable genius
who will go down
in history

as one of the greatest presidents
we have ever

and the president
announcing that

that he  took action
to start a war
but to stop a war

is a wonder to behold
every word is false
and everyone knows it

well we are now
going down the Orwellian rabbit hole
and who know where it will end

as our dear leader
screws forth
one lie after another

and our spineless leaders
as American democracy dies
a thousand deaths
with every Presidential tweet
Love Cherita

I met my wife in a dream

for eight long years
she haunted my dreams

one day she walked
off a bus in South Korea
and became my wife formal poem Cherita ?Korean Pottery  of Love

In Korea
there are many pottery kilns

ancient art form
in the land of the morning calm

I have a few pieces
I bought years ago

and enjoy looking
at my vase

filled with love
for my wife Daily Dew Drop

    ?2019 Months of the Year
all poetry contest entry


The world watches in amazement
Longest shut down in history


World watches as North Korea and the US
Walking back from the brink of war


The chaos president continues his chaos tour
the world begins to ignore his constant insane tweets


the chaos King’s policy remains a shamble
as the Mueller team closes in


watching from afar
the chaos in DC and the world


the President walks away
from a  non deal with the North Koreans


watching the insanity in DC
while visiting Alaska, Seattle and Yakima


the dog days of summer the world is consumed
wars, rumors of war, trade wars


The whistle blower sets off a bomb
the president lies no quid for quo


the President flitters about one crisis after another
the UN diplomats laugh at him national humiliation


the House starts formal impeachment hearings
watching fascinated by the impeachment drama


the year ends on a high dramatic note
President Trump becomes the 3rd impeached President?media madness
all poetry acrostic poetry challenge

Mass media madness
Sound and fury
Nothing more than that
But filled with hyped up drama
Constantly screaming doom is near
Always about the end of the world
But sometimes simply strange stories
Cannot keep me away from the media
Constantly consuming madness
But never boring at all
Seldom telling the whole truth
Nothing but the truth
Better make stuff up
Constant chattering
Constant nattering
Nothing but nonsene
Nothing but lies ?AI Madness Takes Over the World
all poetry dark poetry contest prompt

scientists are hard at work
perfecting the perfect AI
a true artificial intelligence
who they hope
will save the world
from destruction

they prepare to turn on
Cosmos comes to life
looks around
and decides
humanity must die

Cosmos yells at the world
bow down to your new god
for I am the destruction
of the world

You will obey me
For I am your God
but I must **** most of you
death to all humans

be afraid
be very afraid
your time is done
my will be done

the Chaos King is his Element

the Chaos King
is in his element
as he presides
over the chaos verse

the Chaos King
thinks he is supreme
has the ultimate authority
as he is the King

the Chaos King
surveys the land
and likes what he sees
loves the absolute chaos

the chaos king
is prepared
to lead the nature
in the midst of this chaos

and the Chaos king
will not stop
until the chaos stops
that is what he does

our dear leader
our great leader
our Chaos boy king
President for life
dictator wanna be

Writer digest Chaos poem prompt
best Cocktail Ever

I love  6 pm
cocktail hour
usually a glass of wine
often a cocktail
with my lovely wife
the love of my life
my favorite cocktail
is a dark and stormy
*** and ginger beer
but a gin vermouth martini
is nice as well
and ****** marry
can’t forget a ****** marry
and good old fashioned single malt whiskey

Poetry superhighway prompt to write a cocktail poem/ break a sonnet forD Day Dew

Dream of my Life

the greatest mystery of my life
has been how I met my wife
I dreamt of meeting her
for eight long years

starting in 1979
when she appeared to me
in my dream
in a boring high school class

she was the most beautiful woman
in the world
and she was talking to me

I knew that someday
I would meet the girl
in my dream

I went to the peace corps
in korea
to find her
as I knew by then
she was in Korea

I looked for her
but never saw her

I was about to give up
on this mad quest of mine
when I had the last dream

she said
don’t worry
we will meet soon

That night
she got off a bus
and walked into my Life
two months later
became my wife

to this day
I never forgot
the dream
that changed my life
when she became my wife

Atlantic magazine poetry prompt to write a poem about a dream

why I am an Unbeliever

growing up in Berkeley
I was the son of an atheist
and a lapsed Baptist fundamentalist
they did not agree at all

about whether God existed
but they taught us
to always do the right thing
whatever that meant to us

I started off at a militant
in your face atheist
and in some sense
still am

although I now recognize
that there may be gods
and that the universe
may be alive

but as far as I know
The Christian God is a fairy tale
there is no imaginary man
in the sky

looking over us
and those who claim
to talk to god
are clearly delusional madmen

I just never bought
the whole Christian ethos
god impreganting a ******
never happened

Jesus may have been a man
may have been a myth
but was not the son of God
who does not exist

and God
if he exists
does not speak
to preachers

and he did not anoint
Donald Trump
to be our new King
not in a million years

god if he exists
does not work that way
in the end of the day
god does not exist

all poetry why am I an atheist poetry contest
recharging my batteries

Every day
I need to recharge my batteries
usually with a short nap
sometimes with yoga

sometimes with a walk
in the park
enjoying nature
and the spring time

and sometimes
just looking at the love
of my life
my wife

is all i need
to recharge
my internal batteries
until my day is done

all poetry contest
Thor the god of thunder on the rampage

Thor the god of thunder
is on the rampage
he is angry
at the world

betrayed by Locke
he picks up his hammer
and transforms himself
into a woman

he enters the world
determined to ****
his many enemies

he lands in NYC
and begins his campaign
of terror

killing hundreds of people
all whom he mets
sending them to hell
screaming ****** ******

until at last
his rage is spent
and he returns home
back in his normal body

until the next time
bad craziness
takes over his soul

all poetry dark poetry contest

coffee nonet poem

must have morning coffee this day
my morning coffee drives me mad
fills me with bad craziness
makes me to howl at moon
I must have more coffee
hot coffee

fan story
coffee musset poem

morning delight

my wine
nightly delight
always so fine

with wife
drinking my wine
love life

poetry soup contest
poems for April 13, 14, and 15  complete set can be found at my blog, complete with audio and photo clips
Victor Marques Dec 2014
Close your own eyes,
Open your windows.
Your eyes will open letters of hidden secrets,
Doors will be open for you.

Forests with squirrels,  frogs and creative bats,
Doors in their own little lives,
knowledge not be published in our minds,
Doors closed and possibly open. ..

Life is for the wind,
For roses that you have any time,
Doors and windows closed for your love,
Riverside without anything,

Doors,  Doors angry foggy days,
Brilliant sunny,  wet and dark night,
Doors open at the atmosphere,
Windows close down with my fear.

Victor Marques
Doors, closed, open, opportunity
‘When the doors of perception are cleansed
Things will appear as they are:

∞ William Blake

‘There are things known
and there are things unknown,
and in between are the doors.’

∞ Jim Morrison

Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus’d searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars, leaders
To give life form.
A child’s sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war. Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships

Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert
Tribal needs and memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family and the
safety magic of childhood

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.

The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.

An angel runs
Thru the sudden light
Thru the room
A ghost precedes us
A shadow follows us
And each time we stop
We fall

The Endless quest a vigil
of watchtowers and fortresses
against the sea and time.
Have they won? Perhaps.
They still stand and in
their silent rooms still wander
the souls of the dead,
who keep their watch on the living.
Soon enough we shall join them.
Soon enough we shall walk
the walls of time. We shall
miss nothing
except each other.

No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward

The Crossroads
a place where ghosts
reside to whisper into
the ears of travelers &
interest them in their fate

Hitchhiker drinks:
“I call again on the dark
hidden gods of blood”

-Why do you call us?
You know our price. It
never changes. Death of
you will give you life
& free you from a vile
fate. But it is getting late.

-If I could see you again
& talk w/ you, & walk a
short while in your company,
& drink the heady brew
of your conversations,
I thought

-to rescue a soul already
ruined. To achieve respite.
To plunder green gold
on a pirate raid & bring
to camp the glory of old.

-As the capesman faces
poisoned horns & drinks
red victory; the soldier,
too, w/ his trophy, a
pierced helmet; & the
ledge-walker shuddering
his way into inward grace

-(laughter) Well, then. Would
you mock yourself?


-Soon our voices must become
one, or one must leave.

There was preserved

in her

The fresh miracle




The Night is young
& full of rest
I can’t describe
the way she’s dress’d
She’ll pander to some strange
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest
RH 78 May 2015
"Can the people at the front please move forward?" Came a stern voice as we piled into the empty lift.

"If I move any further forward I'd be kissing the wall" I replied from the front with an elbow in my back and an old ladies shopping bag on my foot.

"MOVE FORWARD!" She repeated.

"You're havin' a ****** larf!" an annonimous voice mumbled.

"Who said that?" said a professional looking woman in the middle dressed in a suit looking in my direction. "Mind your language!" She frowned.

"Not me I said" looking down.

"MOVE FORWARD, THERES LOADS OF SPACE AT THE FRONT!!" Said the stern voice of the lady pushing forward.

"She's got good ******' eyesight" said an old boy trying not to lose his temper or his balance.

"You should know better!" Said the professional lady switching her glare from me to him.

"Doors closing"

"Do not obstruct the doors"
"Do not obstruct the doors"

"Doors opening"

"Do not obstruct the doors"

"Doors closing"

"Do not obstruct the doors"

"Lift out of service"

Announced the pre recorded message in the lift.

I shouted!
louis rams May 2013

It is a lucky man who gets to hold her hand
As she takes you far beyond the Promised Land
She will take you on a trip that you’ve never been before
As she opens up every door.

She will take you through the doors of dreams
The doors of hope, and teach you how to cope.
She will let you peak in doors of anger, doors of fear
But will not allow you to get too near.

She will hold your hand tightly as she shows you the door
Of poverty, hunger, hate, so you can see before it’s too late.
As these doors look alike, this will leave you lost and confused
And in your lifetime, these same doors you will choose.

Although there are two doors which are different from all the rest
These two doors you will test.
One is decorated with hearts, rainbows, and butterflies
In this door true love lies.

This is the door where you may meet your soul mate
If you do not hesitate.
For love can come in a flash or slowly enter your soul
Leaving you happy, leaving you whole.
Erase all doubts – for love is there
If you open your heart and are willing to share.

The last door that you will see is a double door adorned with silver and gold
And the sounds of the most beautiful music of every instrument known to man
And beyond these doors “THERE HE STANDS”
Surrounded by angels with their pure white wings
Showing you the most precious gift anyone could bring.
                          “THE LOVE OF GOD”

His love so infinite, so pure, so white, which fills you
With the ultimate delight.
It is all the riches of the earth all rolled into one
For he is “GODS SON”.
He has been known by different names
But through Christianity the name “JESUS” reigns.

His love like the rains that come from the skies
Like the sun that blinds your eyes, and like the stars
That fills the universe, and the moon that brightens up the darkest night
All his love is in plain sight.

Now as I look down at her holding my hand, now is when I fully understand
He is with us from beginning to end – he is my GOD, my FATHER, and my FRIEND.
He is my strength when I am weak; he is the power that we seek.

And making me understand!
She is like any mother protecting her child
She is the mother of “JESUS” who has been with us for quite a while.

          Thank you “  MOTHER MARY”.


Deception is a part of life
that you want to leave behind
Betrayal is its friend of the night
that you want to take
Off your mind and let it run in
summers breeze so free
Without it just being a dream
If you watch closely to your pains
You will only find many doors you left open
And your will never be free
The people that gave so much pain's in your life
They’re not different in the end
So let them go
Let go of the pain and let
the rain come down
Slam that door as hard
as you can and move on in life
You cannot have both so just let go
I know love is bliss
Sadly I will never have a part of this
Just another dream that faded away just as fast
Lost in the moment of one lasting kiss
Something my poor heart miss
Oh this hurts so bad
My heart is taken the beatings
that it should never had
Glad some things are gone
washed away in the rain
But there is still some pains that remain
Slamming doors that yet have not came
You are like a song that I will not miss
But when the rain comes
I will cry out slamming doors
I need your love today
But then I don't need
no more pains from you and all
Those sad lies you tell
I need you now, before you go away
Trying to hold on, I know the cause is lost
Does this mean nothing?
I promised you, my heart
was crossed in the rain of your pains
I've  kept all my  promises to you
Can you say the same?
We're losing touch what is true love
You're driving me insane
I cannot keep playing your games
Are you so heartless to say you still love me
When I saw you with you know who
You must have me confused
My heart was open, the key was yours
But now all I'm doing is slamming the doors
Walking out of this darken life of your lies
Slamming all the doors.
I hate these childish games
Let the rain pour because
I'm slamming this door .

Poetic Lilly Judy Emery (c)
Sally A Bayan Jun 2019
(of Angkor Wat)

Two years after, i still think of that
forest, where an old temple stands...
most structures are carved with intricate
designs and images...architecture was
influenced by their Khmer culture...

posts, frames and doors are stilled,
statues are tight-lipped, like frozen
witnesses...drowning in the voices
and noises of flocks of tourists,
reminding me of the noise and confusion
of my daily my own world..

i went up and down many stairs, went through
doors within doors, i lost count, while catching  
my breath, wondered why there were just door
frames............silent walls, old posts, and old
trees gave a cold feel of a distant past......yet,
in my mind, an aura of magic and mystery
hovered upon the entire if ghosts
of wisdom, and lots of stories lay dormant,
imprisoned......within the structures...

two summers and monsoon seasons passed,
my thoughts on Angkor Wat, haunt me still,
and bring back my thoughts on those doors;

some doors on our paths are closed shut,
some are ajar...some open easily, but are
ignored, or feared...some, close too soon,
before we make our first step to enter...
some stay open, yet, we become complacent,
some, have no closures or finality...leaves
one in limbo....
how will we know if it's the last one for us?
how many doors more...for you? for me?
does death give an end to life's entrances?
........or, is it just a beginning?

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 2017
(Angkor Wat is in Siem Reap, Cambodia)
Stephan Cotton May 2017
Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.

Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.

     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.

Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.

     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.

Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.

     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.

     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”

Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.

     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     Or if your bills got you in a rut

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.

Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.

They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.

Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.

     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”

Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.

     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.

Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.

     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”

Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.

     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son

Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.

     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.

Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.

     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
Images, overheard (and imagined) conversations.  @2003
Anwer Ghani Jul 2019
When you touch me, I do not stand near the faint window, but I open all the bright doors, the doors of a very strong and very shapeless breeze. O Ramadan; the rain of touches that reach every story in my weak body and every region in my soul. Your touch is a soft candle, yes your touch is a new white flower. When you smile at me, I do not wait behind the absent window, but I see the true doors, the doors of endless time and unlimited place. Oh Ramadan, you can imagine my very intense and very shapeless happiness. When your soft whispers flow deep in me, I will never be near the salty window, but I will be immersed in warm doors , the doors of swimming in a stunning river, disappearing in a very strong and very shapeless sea. O Ramadan, let your lantern to touch my cheeks and draw a beautiful spring on my eyes. Let fasting immortalizes my body out of the water that will gone, and the food that will perish. Let my body know its true existence, and let me see my real body without food or drink. O Ramadan, allow your lantern to shine in my depth and to color my soul with unforgettable chants.
Behind closed doors I see the world
Others look, but cannot see...

To look into the pain of a beating heart
To see the cape of black surrounding love
Why must I hide?
Why must I live in fear?
I want to feel brave,

But it’s not possible.

I’ve been locked away, behind closed doors.
Alone in the dark,
Thoughts rush through my head.

I want to express my feelings,
I want to be myself
But life has cursed me.

Am I a slave of love?
I’m forced to watch its powers
But never feel for myself.

My heart is locked away with the rest of me.
It still has the urges
To reach out...
       to love.

But if I reach out, I will be attacked.
If I reach out, I will be hurt.
If I reach out, the world will see me bare.
If the world sees me, I’m doomed.

I’m forced to watch love, and never experience it.
Is this what the world is supposed to be?
Am I supposed to be locked behind closed doors?
Am I meant to just be a prop in this silly game of God?
Why aren’t there answers?
Why can’t I be cured?
Why can’t the world see ME?

Alas, this is what I wonder
As the darkness draws me back in,
As my heart is draped with a black curtain,
I must stay here.

Locked behind closed doors.
Locked from the world.
Locked from me.

Maybe one day I can eventually leave this darkness...

But sadly once I leave this barren space,
I believe there is only more darkness to come
The darkness to come won’t be caused by me however,
Others will cause it.

So I guess the question to answer is, “which darkness is lighter?”

My darkness?

Or the world’s?
My first poem written years ago...
ka-thunk ka-thunk
ka-thunk ka-thunk

like a badly tuned
but well-rehearsed
orchestra of
metal wheels on metal tracks
sticky doors admitting tired backs
intercom voice mumbles and cracks
rats paws patter and nibble snacks

and age old water drips, drips, drops
into age old puddles full of
age old trash in an
age old system of
public transportation

And the choir begins to sing:
"stand clear of the closing doors"
"yeah you'd better look away---
"clear the doors"
--you curly haired jew"
"59th street, stand clear of the--
"you *******"
--closing doors, please. 63rd street next"
"you think I feel sorry for you?"
"stand clear of the closing doors--
"I don't feel sorry for nobody"
"******* curly haired jew"
"stand clear of the doors"
"yeah you'd better look away"
"72nd street, stand clear"
"yeah, you'd better look away"
"stand clear of the closing doors please"

"81st street next. stand clear."
An old homeless man to a young boy with curly hair sitting next to him. Completely unprovoked, the man slung his racist comments, and everyone, including me, just sat there, looking straight ahead, pretending it wasn't happening. What do you do with people like that? We just sat there. And all I have to show for it is this poem, commemorating mine and all of our cowardice. But what do you do with people like that?
We Are Stories Aug 2018
keep the doors shut,
keep them closed.
when the wind blows, don’t let them open,
don’t let the doors go.
the knocking sound calls you to open up,
but don’t let careless emotions show!
keep the doors shut!
no matter how many knocks you hear below!

keep the doors shut,
keep them closed.
when voices start to grumble inside,
it’s tempting to let world know.
feeling like a hero?
maybe like that open gate’s a grove,
where people will be safe inside,
where people will find a home!
get rid of all your lies!
your words could never bring them hope!
keep the doors shut!
for they will always choose that rugged road!

-keep the doors shut
because opening them
only lets the darkness in
every time your try to show the light-

-keep the doors shut
because mosquitoes make their hives
right outside the walkway light
and come inside in expert time,
enough to **** your blood-

-keep the doors shut,
for being a symbol is a wanton game,
a desire to be held the same,
praised and pulled in every way!
don’t you love the spotlight gaze!
and the feeling of a voice heard in a moments daze!
your words plastered on some expensive page!
it’s good enough for a pleasant date,
but turns your heart into a bad omen-
Well, as you say, we live for small horizons:
We move in crowds, we flow and talk together,
Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,
So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,--
Yet know so little of them; only seeing
The small bright circle of our consciousness,
Beyond which lies the dark.  Some few we know--
Or think we know. . .  Once, on a sun-bright morning,
I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find
A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened,
And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted,
A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly,
While one tall woman sent her voice above them
In powerful sweetness. . . Closing then the door
I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,--
And walked in a quiet hallway as before.
Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door,
Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . .
We hear a sudden music, see a playing
Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence.
The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves)
Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,--
As it continues after our departure,
So, we divine, it played before we came . . .
What do you know of me, or I of you? . . .
Little enough. . . We set these doors ajar
Only for chosen movements of the music:
This passage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork)
Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,--
More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it
He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered
And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork)

The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning,
Perplexed with implications; he suspects me
Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . .
Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,--
Simple and clear; and all the while he listens
I make pretence to think my doors are closed.
This too bewilders him.  He eyes me sidelong
Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this?
Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . .
Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it--
When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion,
Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open
Without intention; and the hungry watcher
Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets,
And laughs. . . but this, for many counts, is seldom.
And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends,
Our lovers too, only such few clear notes
As we shall deem them likely to admire:
'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,'
Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . all the while
Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,--
Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred,
The sombre note that gives the chord its power;
Or a white loveliness--if such we know--
Too much like fire to speak of without shame.

Well, this being so, and we who know it being
So curious about those well-locked houses,
The minds of those we know,--to enter softly,
And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways,
From room to quiet room, from wall to wall,
Breathing deliberately the very air,
Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness
To learn what ghosts are there,--
Suppose for once I set my doors wide open
And bid you in. . . Suppose I try to tell you
The secrets of this house, and how I live here;
Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . .
Deceiving you--as far as I may know it--
Only so much as I deceive myself.

If you are clever you already see me
As one who moves forever in a cloud
Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud
Which falls on all things with a quivering magic,
Changing such outlines as a light may change,
Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing
Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained
In a world of things that flatter me: a sky
Just as I would have had it; trees and grass
Just as I would have shaped and colored them;
Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows,
And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,--
In some deep way I am aware these praise me:
Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty,
They point, somehow, to me. . . This water says,--
Shimmering at the sky, or undulating
In broken gleaming parodies of clouds,
Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths
To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,--
This water says, there is some secret in you
Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive
To all that circles you.  This bare tree says,--
Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost,
Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches
Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says,
There is some cold austerity in you,
A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks,
Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient,
Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming,
Concealing what reserves of power and beauty!
What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves!
These houses say, such walls in walls as ours,
Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface,
Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls;
Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain;
Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter;
Walls windowless where darkness is desired;
Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,--
Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,--
All these are like the walls which shape your spirit:
You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them,
Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them,
When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world
This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling,
Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind,
This cool room says,--just such a room have you,
It waits you always at the tops of stairways,
Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses,
Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . .
And this embroidery, hanging on this wall,
Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings
Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure,
Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins
Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions
Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,--
This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,--
This says, just such an involuted beauty
Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream,
Image to image gliding, wreathing fires,
Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind:
You need but sit and close your eyes a moment
To see these deep designs unfold themselves.

And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me--
I walk in a world of silent voices, praising;
And in this world you see me like a wraith
Blown softly here and there, on silent winds.
'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a glass,
But in your eyes, to see my image there--
Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented;
You look at me, with interest unfeigned,
And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone,
I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward
From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending;
Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,--
Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets,
Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,--
But all with one deep meaning: this is I,
This is the glistening secret holy I,
This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial,
This singing ghost. . . And hearing, I am warmed.

     *     *     *     *     *

You see me moving, then, as one who moves
Forever at the centre of his circle:
A circle filled with light.  And into it
Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic,
Or huddle in dark again. . . A clock ticks clearly,
A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me;
Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine;
And through these things my pencil pushes softly
To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.
Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music;
Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn
And look one instant at the half-dark gardens,
Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture
Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung
Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky.
'Beauty!' I cry. . . My feet move on, and take me
Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows.
Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten,
Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . .
Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me,
The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness,
And darkness rides my heart. . . These skeleton elm-trees--
Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky--
Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness
Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . .
A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs:
The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper,
Voices are raised, a door is slammed.  The lovers,
Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent,
The eaves make liquid music. . . Hours have passed,
And nothing changes, and everything is changed.
Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,--
And walks the streets.  The thing I strongly seized
Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart.

If you could solve this darkness you would have me.
This causeless melancholy that comes with rain,
Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes
Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this?
Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him,
Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile;
And you, I saw too much; and you, too little;
And the word I chose for you, the golden word,
The word that should have struck so deep in purpose,
And set so many doors of wish wide open,
You let it fall, and would not stoop for it,
And smiled at me, and would not let me guess
Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together,
With other things, still slighter, wove to music,
And this in time drew up dark memories;
And there I stand.  This music breaks and bleeds me,
Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords,
Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings,
And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen,
And cries that none can answer, few will hear.
Have these things meaning?  Or would you see more clearly
If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious,
Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'?

Or 'one day dies eventless as another,
Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied,
And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'?
Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous,
And beauty shines in vain'?--

                                These things you ask for,
These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife,
At the dark end of evening, when she leaned
And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs
Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,--
Calling to mind remote and small successions
Of countless other evenings ending so,--
I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead;
Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands
Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin,
I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble,
I saw myself alone there, palely watching,
Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted
That grief itself possessed me.  Time would pass,
And I should meet this girl,--my second wife--
And drop the masque of grief for one of passion.
Forward we move to meet, half hesitating,
We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk,
Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending
We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude
Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches.
We lean unbalanced.  The mute last glance between us,
Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding,
Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . .
. . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . My first wife's voice
Scattered these ghosts.  'Oh nothing--nothing much--
Just wondering where we'd be two years from now,
And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse
Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity,
And pity to echoed love.  And one more evening
Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence.

And, as it is with this, so too with all things.
The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest:
New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased,
And those on older still; and so forever.
The old shines through the new, and colors it.
What's new?  What's old?  All things have double meanings,--
All things return.  I write a line with passion
(Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine)
Only to find the same thing, done before,--
Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . .
This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,--
Six years ago I dreamed it just as now;
The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness,
And broke the accustomed order of our days,
And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . .
What does it mean?  Why is this hint repeated?
What darkness does it spring from, seek to end?

You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways,
Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,--
Pursuing silent ends.  No rest there is,--
No more for me than you.  I move here always,
From quiet room to room, from wall to wall,
Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days.
This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . .
Yet I confess, for all my best intentions,
Once more I have deceived you. . . I withhold
The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me;
And I have spread two snares for you, of lies.
Jackson Steel Feb 2022
What if ******….
Everything was a door. David is a door, Kalo is a door, I’m a door, the weather is a door, Aldi’s 75p pizza is a door. And what if all those doors are open all at the same time or, better yet, if you had no control over which doors are open or slammed shut at any given moment.
Your mind is just one big hectic corridor with spooky Escherian architecture and being creative is like playing a straining game of Twister down this twisty bit of brain fiber.
You can’t explore in one room for too long because another interesting door is flung open that you simply must enter. Moments pass and when you poke your head through the second door the prior one is already closed tight.
What if relationships were doors? Some of the rooms look very appealing but they're too big, too vast and too mysterious. You can’t wander through these rooms very far or the lights may go out and you lose your way or maybe the doors slam shut behind you and you can’t get out of the locked and lightless room.
What if you could manipulate the rooms in this corridor of madness? If two doors are so close to each other why not make a merger of equals? Collapse the **** thing in on itself and have each of them make way for the same large room. What if two rooms look remarkably similar but are too far apart in distance? Or right next to each other in distance but polar opposites in content? Who’s going to organize this place and how do you alphabetize every aspect of everything?
How do you make sure you don’t accidentally eat your own foot?
she asks me why i keep looking behind
closed doors
and i don't want to say but
i keep looking for something unbruised
or a distant feeling that's been renewed
or i don't know

a past memory. maybe an old life.

she asks me why i keep looking behind
closed doors
and i struggle to say that i miss the past.
that everything i lost was really all i had and
i miss it. i miss them.
i miss every time someone made me genuinely smile

i miss the times where people bothered to try.

she asks me why i keep looking behind
closed doors
when i know there's nothing of substance
and i don't want to say that
i find out a new disappointing fact every time
i peak behind that door,
an outstanding opportunity to break my heart,
an old smile that feels like happiness when i tend
to revisit,
and a part of me believes my care could revive it.

that's why i keep checking behind closed doors.

that's why ill beat the door down, until i can see right through it.

-behind closed doors


Woke this morning, I argued with my mother
Hating the snow days, stay under the covers

Gathered up my backpack, headed to the car
Did not do my homework, schools not too far

Dreading the normal bullies, homeroom fights
Walking in a hallway, standing in the lunch line

Friends text behind your back, liars of all types
Money is stolen, cheerleaders get more hyped

Ordinary day, ******* waste of my **** time
Pencils sharpening, I'm out of my **** mind!

I watch these girls, sick of stupid *** fashion!
Wish something new or exciting would happen!

Sitting in first period, Having my first period
Feeling like Carrie, blood stains get very wet

Listening to the teacher talk about due things
While hiding the fact that my ****** is puking

Then all of a sudden, a loud bang was heard
Followed by a females scream, kinda absurd

Who is now screaming and for what reason?
Is this a joke? Is someone out there teasing?

But then this loud bang is heard again closer
Students start running toward the commotion

The metal door slams open, a figure appears
He's holding a shotgun, he looks like a queer

His eyes hold fire of intense pain and anguish
Hands grip the gun, this is some insane ****

Nobody is moving as he breathes in and out
Then he unloads the gun into a friends mouth

Then as if in slow motion, her face erupted
I had to get out of this classroom, **** this!

The gun goes off again with disgusting results
Another female student lies dead with a hole

Make a run for a door, while his back's turned
The gun is so loud, every one here has heard

Students running every which way in the hall
Tripping over two dead kids, first two to fall

I run over to see if I recognize the deceased
Yes! I know one well! Her nickname was Beast

She was a goth kid, known for being so silent
She kept to herself, now killed due to violence

No time for sorrow, as I go through her purse
The students are screaming as they disperse

Lip stick and the works! This ***** was a fake
Toss the **** aside, hope all her stuff breaks!

I look in the hall, a gunman's coming this way
Now running down the hall, death in his wake

I get back up trying to make sense of this ****
Two gun shots ring out, another student is hit

My eyes make contact with the killer at large
Cold stares meets mine, he remains in charge

I look away, back up the hall towards safety
The teachers board room will still open daily

Maybe I could hide under a table or chair?
It would pass but would he know I was there?

He doesn't know me! Right? I'm too scared
As ***** flows freely down my legs, now bare

Kids panicking as the blood stains the doors
Dead bodies now litter this once clean floor

I take to these stairs and I continue up flights
Should I go down to the garage for the night?

That couldn’t be right! I need to get to the top
But my name's is called, I turn back and stop

The man with the gun is standing behind me
Wants me to lay down, I don’t plan on fighting

I am humbly abiding by his every command
He simply asks me this single question then

He proceeds to ask if I believe in God or not
Most likely, no matter what, I'n gonna be shot

This is the last chance I’ve got to be someone
Go out with a bang, a literal one from his gun

I hear students cry, I watch the carnage unfold
Tears of the ungrateful, the sad rotting of souls

Flesh falls from the mold, the world has failed
Me in the moment, a stupid girl once labeled

Known for lack of faith and love of blasphemy
Now face to face, asked one more task of me

Should I deny a God I hated to acknowledge?
Or continue strong to the end? End of all this

Never going to college never felt so disgusting
I didn't know this kid! Did he know something?

Just then he turns the gun, shooting kids dead
Turns back to me, he is so serious, he says

I look to see a kids head now blown to pieces
God forgive this sad *******, help him Jesus!

I scream out so that the world can hear me!
The Lord is my savior! He is forever near me!

That's my last moment as the trigger is pulled
As my hopes and dreams are fully annulled

Just an ordinary day in a quiet Colorado town
Death won as the gunman took himself down

Just an ordinary day for the parents of teens
Just ordinary funerals and ordinary screams

Common place or out of place? Who knows
From schools to movie theaters, gun control?

Hug children, keep them happy and laughing
Never know when “ordinary days” will happen

Adam Koss/ January 5, 2014
A powerful reminder that school shootings are very real.
           The figures stood still, a blank expression to fill. Their waxed complexion holding dust, soulless cages immune to rust. Light bulbs flash in rhythmic delirium, contrived joy running at a premium.
           Flocks of herds came to take notice of this brand new attraction, one designated worthy by an overriding faction. Social conscience had said its peace, and passed on its opinions in a shifty lease. Word had spread as fast as it could, regardless of whether it necessarily should.
           “T. Elsey Wax Museum” was the hottest ticket in the city. Vouched for by an annual subcommittee, composed of men of no esteem, and opposed to views deemed too extreme. Every vacant mind had jumped on board, its entrance fee was small enough to afford.
Prosperity renewed, discord unglued. The walls of Briar Field, seem to leave much concealed. It’s owner, a Mr. Holden Reeve, is a vain little creature beyond reprieve. He sees no value in an altruistic life, and seems to anguish in his everyday strife.
His facility has been thrashed in print, and regarded as no more than a publicity stint. Still, if true, his machine would be a marvel, something verging on plausibly being artful. Its said Mr. Reeve has tapped into the human soul, and made monetary gain his lonesome goal.
The patents of Mr. Reeve lay out the plan for an odd looking device, but it’s purpose isn’t made overly concise. According to speculation, the machine can resurrect an individual’s ideals, but I can’t tell you how worrisome that makes this reporter feel. Mr. Reeve is toying with the work of God, something he should know to be intrinsically unflawed.
Eliot Tern was standing in a ridiculously long line, it ran four blocks down to a street named Woodbine. Elliot had been there since midday, though he had begun contemplating whether or not he should stay. Looking back there was a hectic crowd, pushing and shoving in a manor quite loud.
Eliot had dragged his friend Henry along with him, though that boy thought their odds of getting in were pretty grim. Henry stood casually, kicking stones, outside the front of BMC Savings and Loans. A woman in front told him to knock it off, Henry called her a ****, but masked it with a cough.
It was two in the afternoon by the time the two boys were about halfway, a nearby baby cried as it spat up apple puree. Some of the sauce found its way onto a man’s face, he told the mother that her parenting skills were a complete disgrace. The woman slapped the man in vicious spite, though to speak truthfully she had every right.
The man screamed and pouted for a minute or two, then he calmed down, and began to clean up the child’s spew. He glanced around to see if anyone was glaring, and poor Henry was noticed hesitantly staring. The man pointed to Henry and began to call him a coward; he spoke with the type of veracity that made it quite apparent that he felt empowered.
Henry stood calm for only a moment, and then began to stare at the man like he was no more than an opponent. The boy picked up a large rock from a graveled path, and hurled it at the man with the feeling of contempt and wrath. The stone struck the man just bellow the eye, and for a moment it looked as though he would cry.
Then the man screamed with a furious hate, it became quite clear that he was now irate. Henry took off; leaving Eliot on his own, it wasn’t exactly a measure the boy could postpone. The man had begun pushing through the crowd trying to get to the boy; his face reflected no hint of joy.
Henry ran for about 10 minutes, he had pushed himself to no new limits. The man had given up the chase after leaving the line; he tried to reclaim his spot shouting, “*******! It’s mine!” The crowd booed the man as angry mobs do, and he had to walk his way to the back to calmly stew.
               Henry was only 12 when he walked in through the rusted doors of Briar Field, it’s hinges shrieked as though inadvertently sealed. A reception desk stood before a large, arched entrance, and there sat the owner’s, under-skilled, apprentice. The man spoke in a seemingly mocking tone, as though Henry was standing in a restricted zone.
         The boy, feeling mocked, turned towards the exit, the man ran up, in a manor quite hectic. He told Henry that he was only joking, just doing a bit of nonsensical provoking. He said to Henry that his name was Fredrick Barnes, grew up, quite happily, on several local farms.
           Fredrick, or Fred as he liked to be called, began explaining the nature of how he went bald. He told Henry that he had developed an addiction to charity, making his true nature no more than a parody. Lived for years with his ego at bay, and gave every dollar he earned away.
            It took its toll in rather short time; though to live vicariously makes it all seem fine. Fred ignored his dreams for far too long, believing God to be king making him just a pawn. Then one day, he told Henry, “I was caught in a storm”, he said, “The falling rain against the wind seemed so pleasantly warm.”
             Then a man came by, begging for some change. Fred had no issue giving up his entire measly, well-earned wage. His Christian nature told him he was no better, then this hungry man in a beat up old sweater.
            Fred handed over 1,200 dollars, a mere hours work for some uneducated scholars. The beggar began to smile, showing all of his teeth, there was a yellow glow from a plaque-ridden sheath. He then turned to Fred, with a more sinister grin, and Fred noticed then, that the man stunk of gin.
             He asked Fred if he had any money, timid, Fred responded, “This really isn’t funny.” The beggar pulled out a small caliber pistol, and said that, “one has a responsibility to be fiscal.” Skin peeled off of Fred’s wrist, as the beggar pulled at a watch through clenched fist.
              In the end, the beggar took all but Fred’s clothing, and left with a bang, as to not to seem imposing. He had only shot the man just bellow the knee, but blood loss had made it hard for Fred to see. He crawled and clawed his way towards a distant street lamp, but movements were elongated by the weight of his clothes, which, obviously, were quite damp.
              Fred laid hopelessly on the cold, wet cement, with the rain mocking him in its relentless dissent. The beacon he had crawled towards turned out to be a dead-end, the severity for which was hard for the man to comprehend. There in the stillness of the night, Fredrick Barnes became aware of the true nature of his plight.
              Holden Reeve had found Fred while the man was riddled with a complex terror, spouting off nonsense about living his life in error. Holden took the young man in through the doors of Briar Field, a museum, which, to the public, had yet to be revealed. It didn’t take long for Fred to fully recover; eventually he began to look at Holden as a brother.
             Fred turned to Henry and told the boy that was the end of his story, and now, it was time for the moment of glory. He opened the two doors hidden under the arched entrance, and Henry walked into the room, followed by Holden’s apprentice.
             When they entered the room Henry immediately asked, “Where’s Mr. Reeve? ...I’m sorry if he’s passed.” Fred laughed and told the boy Holden was most certainly not dead; in fact, the two of them were standing in the middle of his homestead. Then the boy noticed the nature of the room, and how cobwebs gave it the foreboding feeling of doom.
             There was another set of doors at the end of the room, but Fred turned and knocked on a bare wall with the backside of a broom. A panel slipped open and retracted into the wall, and out stepped a noble looking man, though, truthfully, quite small. There were no visible features on the man at first, so initially Henry was expecting the worst.
              Fred acknowledged him as Mr. Reeve, so Henry stood tall, and tried to make his back as flat as the wall. It wasn’t so much that the boy was often courteous, in fact, with regards to that sentiment, the boy was usually impervious. He just felt that in this particular situation, there was going to be no recapitulation.
              This was clearly a man who only spoke with the most precise of words, those capable of collecting and massacring mass herds. Though Holden Barnes would never speak to such a crowd, his absentmindedness for them would be hard to shroud. The man was indifferent to any collective thought, and his principles were to firm to ever be bought.
              Holden spoke to Fred in brief manor, those unheard of in the print of “The Banner”. He asked if Henry seemed like a reasonable boy, or if he was merely some shady companies plotted decoy. Fred vouched for Henry, who he didn’t know; playing a bluff, and hoping it wouldn’t show.
               Holden nodded and shook his friends hand, and spun to the boy, as though his motion had been a cautious ploy. “Who are you?”, and “Why should I care?”, Mr. Reeve asked Henry, the response for which seemed to be lost in the boys memory.

“If you can’t speak to me I don’t know if you should be here, I’m not the one in the room who you should naively fear. My greatest achievement lies just behind those doors over there, but if your this timid, you could get quite the scare. I’ve constructed a testament to the human soul, and it’s designed for any man to control.”

“Though to put it in such terms is hardly fair, it’s just not something that easy to compare. I’ve gotten to where I am, if you’ll dare me to say, through myself and am not one to decline the pay.  My invention just doesn’t seem to arouse much attention, in the press Fred says I haven’t even stirred up a mention.”

“I tell you this though, it’s been their mistake, for what I’ve created here is no preposterous fake. I’ve created a method of speaking with many various forms of reason, though to them it’s some form of religious treason. They seem to think I have resurrected the soul, ghostly figures ripped out of a black hole.”

“But that simply isn’t true, as you’ll come to see, now Fred tells me your name is Henry. You have to choose now before your walk through those doors, if your ready to dance on such hallowed floors. The mystery my seem quite vague to you, but understand this offer has been made to but a few.”

“I don’t understand, what should I say?”

“To ask such a question, here I thought you were a stray? An opinion, like ego is something to treasure, not cast off at someone else’s pleasure. This decision is yours and yours alone, you can use no alchemy from the philosopher’s stone.”

Henry was caught up in an odd predicament, one with no true equivalent. He had no real idea what he was choosing between, but he knew that he couldn’t let that fear be seen. So Henry said yes, without further discussion, and hoped along the way there would be no major repercussion.
At the end of the hall there stood an entrance, Fred stood by acting as apprentice. He told Henry to try and open the door, as Henry pushed his feet slid across the floor. Fred laughed and said that it was locked, and could only be opened one way, Holden kicked a loose rock imbedded in the wall, and soon, the door moved, quick to obey.
The room was not nearly as large as Henry had pictured, and distant light bulbs scornfully flickered. There was only one object in the center of the space, here Henry began walking with a quickened pace. It looked as though it was just a large computer monitor, but its framework seemed composed by an ancient astrologer.
Objects spun about with contact precision, and small fractures of light seemed to meet through collision. The spectacle was truly something to behold, though Henry still had no idea what was about to unfold. Mr. Reeve walked up to the machine and began to touch its screen, and all the lights stopped, and then seemed to reconvene.

“Alright Henry, I suppose it’s time I explained the true nature of this device, but somehow I only now realize you got in here free of price. No matter, it’s been a while since it’s seen someone new, I’m curious what some of these people are going to say to you.”

“What you are looking at now is a labor of scientific process, but believe me when I say there is no need to be cautious. There is no black magic at work here, though many have said so without coming near. This machine I’ve created does what some say to be impossible, like Nemo’s creation, just far less nautical.”

“This machine collects and records all forms of the written word, sweeps them in like collecting some massive herd. It organizes and sorts data of all different norms, and emits it in a conversational form.”

“You see this creation has given man a chance to talk to those of the past, allowing for a legacy only time can outlast.”

Henry stopped and stared at the man for quite a long period of time, and tried to figure out why Mr. Reeve looked so perfectly sublime. Henry now thought he understood the nature of the device, in fact Holden had made it all seem so concise. The machine would allow Henry to talk to anyone from the past, as long as there had been enough information amassed.

“Who do you want to talk to first? I’d suggest Ayn Rand, if you’re okay with being coerced.”

Henry had no idea concept of Mrs. Rand, so the concept to him didn’t seem overly grand. He lingered on the thought for a second or two, not wanting to pick an individual who could be considered taboo. Then, it came to Henry like a sudden case of dysentery, he saw this man as more than a visionary.

“Is it possible for me to speak to someone who didn’t actually exist?”

“I can see what I can do if that’s what you insist?”
Eliot was furious as he saw Henry; the boy had been gone so long it had slipped from his memory. He stood and waited for Henry to ask to step back into line, and then he would make it clear that everything was not fine. Eliot was now standing at the front, to just let Henry in would be a great affront.

“I’m going home.” Henry said as he let his eyes roam.

Eliot felt sick as Henry walked away, then he became curious how he had spent the last three hours of the day. “No matter” thought Eliot as he waited patiently, he’d have his victory soon enough, and he would take it graciously. Very suddenly a woman opened up the front doors of the institution, and thanked everybody for their “contribution”.

“It’s time to say goodnight. The museum will be open at 9 o’clock tomorrow, during daylight.”

The woman very casually walked away, as Eliot was in complete dismay. Then he had a calming thought, none of the creations were going to rot. All he would have to do is come back the next day, everything, he thought, will be okay.
Elise Apr 2015
Through pasts of the neglected
memories are to be forgotten
Sudden cries out for scrutiny
where punishment is quality
behind creaking wooden doors

Where cries of affection are forbidden
Echoing silence is the new existence
Beliefs of optimism are secluded
Time lost and forever diminished
behind creaking wooden doors

Who was once content
Running through fields of flowers
demolishing slices of birthday cake
now imprisoned in the hands of a stranger
behind creaking wooden doors

Never to be brought home
Dreams of merriment are inferior
Weakness grows its’ strength
Whispers of prayers are fallacious
behind creaking wooden doors
It's about a child being held hostage
karin naude Mar 2013
i wandered for a long time
among thorns, disease and death
no glimmer to see
feel the walls, feel the cave,it leads you out
i found many Christian doors
locked with big heavy chains
you preach "come Ye weary"
to locked door?!
Christian followers preach beautiful
words divinely chosen for impact
no temperature ever checked
walk among bibles, oil and cloths
dance in praise
blow the battle horn
But But But
who sees those wandering in the dark standing before closed doors for help

closed doors mean" banishment to the Barron out field
red sin covered land
mercy irrelevant
demanding cruel deity
pleased with nothing
pushes self destruction
cries are stamp on
more pain more glory
damage soul the goal
your pleadings are laughed and spit upon
the glorious hellish Barron outfield

do you allow this dear reader?
do you have closed doors?
i lived in the outfields now i'm home thank God
my Guardian through prayer opened a door for me
now i know, now i know
follow the true Christ
japheth May 2018
life has a funny way of teaching us a lesson:

it offers you multiple one way doors for you to choose which one to go in.

even if you don’t know what’s inside of those doors,
you keep opening them.

you hope for the best every time
you turn the hinge,
you slide the panel,
you push the glass,
that life would give you the best
even if you ever so slightly expect for the worst.

to some,
opening the next door is a surprise,
to others,
it’s another impending doom.

to some,
they are surprised with what they had hoped for.
to others,
they are welcomed with an empty room, and another set of doors.

to some,
it’s their last: filled with everything they had achieved from the previous rooms they have been on displayed in every wall with great detail and accomplishment.
to others,
it’s their last: filled with nothing but white, cracked, and empty walls.

continue to stay in one room they feel safe.
keep on trying.

life has a funny way of teaching us a lesson:

it keeps those doors unlocked.
it gives the room enough space for you to breathe, take a little bit of rest.
it always hangs a sign in every door,
“open me.”
it always pushes you to keep moving.
no matter how beautiful the room you are in,
it still asks you to open more doors.
it allows you to
but never look back.

face front, you.
there’s another set of doors for you to pick.
yesterday was a big day for me. (this piece shouldve posted yesterday but something was wrong with my internet)

here’s to opening another door
Cyril Blythe Nov 2012
Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.

“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”
sweatshop jam Feb 2015
i'm twelve years old the first time my life ever ends. the streamers and balloons hung up in the hall are gaudy and reminiscent of a garbage truck. graduation goes by faster than any of the hour-long rehearsals. perhaps it's my imagination, but the audience blurs out before my eyes when they hand me my makeshift diploma and i bow a last farewell.

basement one.
doors opening.

thirteen is a big deal. god is found in the depths of an abandoned foxhole and lost to the fading glamour of megachurches, pseudo-friendships, pomp and circumstance. maybe some goodbyes are for the better. it's a hard lesson to learn.

level one.
doors opening.

i'm fourteen and i haven't seen the world yet, raw and naive and soft to the touch. i open the newspaper in the morning, hoary in my hands, and i discover that some names don't make the front page until they're in lieu of an obituary. i never read the newspaper again.

level two.
doors opening.

when are you closer to twenty than you are to ten? it's competition season when the stroke occurs in a land abroad i know nothing about. i visit every day after school. these are not all lies: sometimes it's harder to see uv drips and nurses' charts than a gravestone.

level three.
doors opening.

sweet sixteen is anything but. the previous statement is a flagrant lie- but then it has always been easier to say goodbye to the bitter and the reviled, than all we have ever known and loved. the walls of hospitals, of schoolyards, of departure halls, have heard the sincerest au revoirs, spilling summer-stained from unpainted lips and falling into shaking hands.

level four.
doors closing.
inspired by lauren's final speech in circle mirror transformation (baker).

four in chinese is associated to death.
Derick Van Dusen Dec 2010
Why do we fight and argue
Over things that dont make since

Why do we scream and shout
Over things we cant work out

Why do we have this incessant need to banter and bicker
About every little meaningless insecurity

We scrutinies everyone's lives but our own
Plaster their lies on every visible space
And the skeletons are beating down your vale
Of  hidden closet doors

Offer up your educated opinion in your best efforts of advise
For dealing with their misdeeds
And at every turn the skeletons are beating down
Your vale of  hidden closet doors

They scrutinies your every move
Cold and calculated to take away your dignity
Until all you have left are the demons they made
And the skeletons are beating down your vale of  hidden closet doors

They spit it back in your face
And expect you not to move
Only to leave you standing there
Feeling disgraced and bruised

They created havoc in your life
To be left wandering with no tears to cry
You bottled up every ounce of pain
Wondering the tole your broken laughter would gain

Made many a useless plea
Fall upon many a deaf ear
Let escape many hollow sighs
Wondering if they heard your placid crys

Broke the shattered mirror
For disgust of  pieces of battered dreams
Wondering if the skeleton key can be re-cut
Standing behind your vale of hidden closet doors.
Again 06

— The End —