"drawers" poems
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.
walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was a comforter:
demons were embedded.
yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?
one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance
"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams
it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Warming up; broad strokes, slow.
Weaving in; zig zags, back and fore.
Quick flicks; **** and sip. Wanting more.
Long circles; slide, gently touching below.
Come hither; and it's off you go.
Wet drawers; when it rains it pours.
Foreplaying; got us both on all fours.
Knees weak; can't take it anymore.
My lips; tugging yours.
Amazing sensation; curling your toes.
Lapping tongue; series of sips.
Guiding hand; full of tips.
Bodies part: tongue, fingers, nose, lips
Raising tides; lifting your hips.
Quality time; best spent like this.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
Cné
In my most desperate need
seek out a bush by a tree
rewarded with a rash on my rear end
relieving, with a squat, by poison ivy
No thank you, I will take a chance
in hopes of saving my ***
and hold it until I just can't
and avoiding a nasty rash
even if it means ....
I will possibly *** my pants
Temporal Fugue
*** the least of your worries
as your bladder will expand
making you make decisions
not all that good, or planned
So make your place
and keep your wits
bear, what you can stand
drop your drawers and hold your ****
and *** as god, demands
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC
Warming up; broad strokes, slow.
Weaving in; zig zags, back and fore.
Quick flicks; **** and sip. Wanting more.
Long circles; slide, gently touching below.
Come hither; and it's off you go.
Wet drawers; when it rains it pours.
Foreplaying; got us both on all fours.
Knees weak; can't take it anymore.
My lips; tugging yours.
Amazing sensation; curling your toes.
Lapping tongue; series of sips.
Guiding hand; full of tips.
Bodies part: tongue, fingers, nose, lips
Raising tides; lifting your hips.
Quality time; best spent like this.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.
When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.
When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.
High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.
Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.
The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.
How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.
How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.
If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
*I explain my metaphors with metaphors
I don't know how else to express
My thoughts that sit in clutter drawers
And leave my mind a mess
If you don't understand my comparison
I'll just say it in a different way
My thoughts still shielded by a garrison
Suppressing things I need to say*
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.
6.6k
Some truths are told in anger,
Some truths are told in vain,
Sometimes there’s value in candor,
Sometimes truth just causes pain.
Some truths told aren’t told on purpose,
Some come out without consent,
Some when told do a great disservice,
No matter how honorable their intent.
Some truths are never told,
Away in drawers they’re kept,
Things gilded still shine like lustrous gold,
And dry are tears long wept.
I once had a truth I tried to speak,
But it was spoken by another prematurely,
I saw it happen, my voice was weak,
I handled it like a child and far too immaturely.
What was exposed could not be taken back,
It was a point of no return,
I was indignant, it all turned black,
I wanted the world to burn.
And burn it did,
But only mine,
Down hard I slid,
The real world was fine.
With time gone by, I must admit a lesson I learned,
The truth really does set you free,
But to whom my truth concerned,
I can only apologize, it should’ve come from me.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
longing
1. noun; a yearning desire
- i never used to be uncomfortable in my own bed. i knew your name before my rib cage started to sing it in my sleep. every night that has passed crosses itself off of a pocket-calendar that is stuck in the drawers of my chest. you move your favorite things into the empty spaces, you hang your worst fears up like clothes that are waiting to dry, you scratch how you love into the bedpost and put your handprints all over the walls. i can't take a deep breath without
hearing your voice in the refrain of my lungs.
yearnining
2. noun; a feeling of strong want or need
- the first time i heard your voice, it sounded exactly like what
your voice should sound like. soft, barely above a whisper, low
and confident and eager. when you spoke, i wanted
to cancel the outside noise of my breathing to listen to you. i wanted
to close my eyes and imagine that voice next to my ear, barely
above a whisper, low and confident and eager and right there
with both of our breathing suspended by its echo.
desire
3. noun; a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.
- every day it is something different. your eyes and how they
almost close when you smile. how your whole family has brown
eyes but you have bright blue ones that turn to gray as the
seasons wear on. your hands and how they look like you
should play an instrument, im saying *put those hands to
good use and find something to strum.* and we laugh because
you know what i mean. your laugh. it sounds like an answer
to a question i've been asking the silence.
give me someone to love like that. give me someone to love like that. give me-
like a call back from the
darkness. like, here he is in all of his glory and you
still can't have him.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
I'm an olympic housewife.
My mantlepiece of medals
is perfectly folded washing
arranged in mahogany drawers
with calm elegance
like swans on a lake.
I’m an elite athlete of the mundane.
My scrapbook of 1st place ribbons
are surfaces that sparkle
a masterpiece of purity
zen arrangement lust
like Ikebana in an empty room.
I’m an extreme sport star of domesticity.
My list of world class honours
gluten free bake-offs
blogging my parenting tips
a domestic online celebrity
like an effortless Demeter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
EVERY LITTLE FISH CAN SWIM
1893
saw the beginning of me.
I was born
in a railway carriage
between somewhere
and somewhere else
in an Europe that
would change with the map
the lines redrawn
by War
some unpronouncable
European nowhere.
A barrel *****
was playing a tune that
would soon be forgotten
on the station platform
when Mamma and I
arrived
at our final destination
the train breathing like a dragon.
Its whistle
cutting through time.
Later I would remember
a little wooden acorn
at the end of a string on the blind
tapping against the window
as if it were admonishing
the dawn demanding
entrance to
the room when I was three and
pulling the blind up and then
pulling the blind down.
"Shadow people"
thrown against the wall
would not survive
a morning.
All night they chattered
amongst themselves
prowling the room
that was holding me.
Debating whether to
eat me now or later.
"Beings" merely made from
the edge of a wardrobe or
a chest of drawers
the brass **** at the end of
my bed where clothes
thrown over a chair
made them come alive
I believe
in them until
I was nearly seven.
Too scared to ***
in the porcelain ***
wetting the bed
to the anger of Mama.
And now 1963
will more than likely see
the end of me
as I am
and the mind
that created who I was
offers me these
fragments of insignificance
that amount
to being a life.
I laugh as Noël
Coward warbles
in his shellac'd world
forever singing
"But I can't do anything at all
but just love you!"
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Give me dreams that will make me crawl
ones that hold all of the night
one filled with delighten fright
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Give me your thoughts
Big or small
I want to dwell in dusted drawers
The ones that have been opened once, now no more
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Give me my lover whom stood by me so tall
Help me collect our ashes that flew
let us leave our rotten memories for the fresh morning dew
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Tell us your ways not to fall
Whisper the grooves on paths we must bend
Will our minds find galaxies we can comprehend?
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Can evil be a portrait for anyones hall
do we learn darkness by loosing the light
Or does it come from the lonesomes bitter fight?
Dreamer dreamer on the wall
Oh my dreamer are you there at all?
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Dysfunctional behind closed doors
Shapeshifted the lovesick *****
She'll touch you timid, trembling hands
Scared that you arent coming back
Digs through drawers and under the sink
Searching for her missing link
A cigarette will do for now
At least it isn't puppy chow
Shameless in her actions past
Comfortable in coming last
Theres more than at the surface level
And everybody's personal hell
Clove hitch knot around her waist
She followed at a steady pace
Wrapped around your pinky finger
She mimicked all you seemed to give her
What her eyes can do to you
Back of my throat still tastes like glue
What a sullen memory
Of what that **** can do to me
She bites her nails and fingertips
Terrified that she might slip
A clumsy dance that she once knew
Of falling into penance due
Twirl your hair and crack a smile
This one's gonna take awhile
Different or the same old same old
They've paid for it in pounds of fools gold
Chasing after fading dreams
Tripping up on memories
Will she make it on her own
A concept simple, yet unknown
A reunion of the sweetest kind
Desperate to escape the time
Spirits burn an empty soul
But never can they make one whole
Echoing within her chest
"You have always been the best"
She sips and stares across the room
Shadowed by her phantom groom
Cut off from hearts nourishment
All on her own cursed to lament
The choices that she didn't make
And chances that she didn't take
A sigh inside an empty mind
A drop of water off the tide
She's buried next to clementines
Roots entangle, synchronize
What a pretty little mess
Of despondancy and tenderness
And she's still waiting underground
For a love once frolicked, love once found
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
I’ll do you like your
Eyes
Ask me to,
As relentlessly
As your
Smile’d
Wish, come every our
Encounter.
I’ll do you, like the –
Plastic, porcelain, and
Polymer
Scenery –
Holography and
Hidden drawers,
Once a sin and
Twice a cross.
I’ll do you, as
I’m, and a first,
If only an
“Object.”
I know it, but you don’t.
You love it, but I won’t,
Because you’d only burn,
Come knowing I’m, “taken.”
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
I was going through my drawers today
And came across the handkerchief
I had used to dry my eyes
On the day of my fathers death
I never did wash it
Those tears hold meaning for me
Although they have long dried and gone
Never will his memory
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
poor, slumped over and broken strangers
for a penny, share their paltry stories, one by one
snippets and scatters of half-truths and fables,
so raunchy they'd make Aesop blush.
don't deprive me of your salacious souls.
rented sea views with mirrors and doors,
unlocked drawers and white ***** floors,
with freshly dead ***** in claw-footed tubs.
rich luxury rich luxury rich luxury rich luxury
does that second home taste too sweet?
ears swallowed by bubble bath suds
head underwater, eyelids crushed and
stinging from the acrid chemical perfume;
drinking the bathwater in an unclean tub,
tasting notes of freesias and ***** green-blue.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
A busy man, a real nice gent.
Its often said of me.
Hard working and of good intent.
I would not disagree.
My work is of such an importance.
Skilled beyond my years am I.
Requiring such diligence.
Without that, many poor could die.
Skill is gained by repetition.
Practice must be sought.
My weekend is an expedition.
Where ladies of the night are bought.
In the darkness no applause.
An operation I attend.
Lying here without her drawers.
Her life suddenly at end.
I only take the parts I need.
That’s all I ever do
I am not here to sow my seed.
To my wife I am true.
But dangers lurk round every bend.
They have it in for me.
And so this exercise must end.
So much for liberty.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Goliath:
You buy your love with bourbon creams,
cans of beans and full cupboard brims;
steal clothes to hide a torso of lies
twist that in with teaspoon brown eyes,
deeper than any holy bible’s spine:
found in hotel drawers,
away from the preachy, needy, cast iron shrine.
David:
Whilst the girl you’re with has nothing to give,
no family member nor money splendour,
you battle on with the train rides
cross country,
cross country train track guides.
Audiobook it; listen to it; learn it and write it,
write the letter she deserves, explaining
the ins and outs of your hidden nerves:
the nerves entitled ‘I don’t love you anymore’
My first poetry pamphlet, 'Homeland & Borderland' is still available to buy for only 3.00 GBP with free P+P to anywhere in the world. Both handmade and self published>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/it-is-here-homeland-borderland.html
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
meggie
was thumbing
through her
fair trade
“style with a
conscience”
holiday catalog
eyeing
baby organics
indulgent Alpaca’s
green gear for guys
dining as nature intended, and
the best reusable shopping bags, period!
“What do you want for
Christmas Dad?”
“just be a good girl, meggie.”
I answered.
“I’m gonna get you a pair of socks
for Christmas Dad.”
“I don’t need an expensive
pair of socks. megs...
After a couple of washes
one always gets lost
inside the bottomless
tumbler.
Leaving only one to lay
inside a chest of drawers,
in the company of
happy matched pairs,
waiting to warm my
Lamisil wanting toes
One sock
alone and unhappy
its a really sad story.
Radio Arcade: Socks Song
Suffern
11/8/13
jbm
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'the end'
the end of all things
the end of crinkle-eyed smiles
the end of early morning kisses
the end of late night giggles
the end of bathroom break tears
the end of raw vocal chords
the end of resentment
the end of love
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'new'
new start
new house
new freedom
new tears
new loneliness
new love
new life
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'i give up'
i give up on cleaning up your ***** cereal bowls
i give up on picking up your clothes
i give up on our queen-sized bed
i give up on two toothbrushes
i give up on two bathroom drawers
i give up on sharing a closet
i give up on sharing a life
i give up on you
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'give it away'
pictures of the life we shared? give it away.
that queen-sized bed? give it away.
four bedroom house? give it away.
circular piece of platinum? give it away.
diamond ring? give it away.
your love? give it away.
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'without'
without pain
without anger
without anxiety
without snoring
without kisses
without hands
without guidance
without a friend
without you
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'too'
too far
too bad
too sad
too much
too late
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'goodbye'
goodbye, my love
goodbye, dear old friend
goodbye, *******
goodbye, bane of my existence
i wish you all the best, but
goodbye, my friend
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
you're not doing well
with skin like bed sheets
ebbing tides in your forehead
and the malady that keeps your mind guessing,
these next six nights
of not having to feel
so alone will make you
fall back into sleep
to grow roots.
i'll cut holes in the ozone
to put your heartache in
i'll walk you to the hospital,
i'll wait in a white room,
place your sad eyes in my drawers
until my hand breaks
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and 'you are so important to me'
is easier to digest than
skipping heart beats
i miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47,
and
i've fallen in love
you're the only one that made that idea
less devastating.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC