"housebound" poems
Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.
Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
She finds that even backyard leaves contain
a blazing history inside their veins.
She reads the legends etched in crinkled skin,
her ardent, housebound blood boiling within.
At dusk, she likes to listen to the creek–
its reverent, animated tales of meek
young girls who grew into grand bronze statues–
and long for metal legs that’d let her choose
to dare, and burn, instead of fear, and waste.
But still, at night, her body likes to chase
the hours stargazing at ceilings. And
the myth-less, coarse white stucco slowly sands
away each spot of sprouting luster on
her atrophying frame. With nerve all gone
and adult blood inert as viscous tar,
she cannot even dream of ceiling stars.
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC
My room,
Both a death camp and a safe zone,
Rather wither away,
Than face execution.
Open door,
Deep breath,
Failure.
Hand over my feelings,
back to bed,
laying there,
friends were a conspiracy.
Leaving this house a teenage floor of lava,
To the armory,
Wield headphones and an over grown coat.
Open door,
Deep breath,
Stand.
The sun hurt as if i just left a space ship,
Fear of both know and unknown,
On this planet I was the alien.
Open gate,
Deep breath,
Walk.
Pavements conveyor belts,
Pushing out ghouls of society,
Cubicle bound,
Grey walls.
Yet still asked why so scared,
Of what I wish was just in my head,
This earth,
The land of dead.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Thinking back to our beginning
Of things we used to do
Lord, I know my mind's still willing
I wish my body still was too
The years have passed by quickly
I blinked and they were gone
In time we both got sickly
But, our memories linger on.
We used to go out walking
To the park and in the woods
Just spending time together
And we talked and times were good
Now it's just a memory
Now it hurts to climb the stairs
We may no longer go out walking
But the memory lingers there
It's not that we were active
But our world was larger then
Now, we're confined to samll spaces
Our world was larger to us then
Once the snow comes we are housebound
We're together, not alone
We talk of when times were better
And we talk how we have grown
Disabled doesn't live here
We won't say words of that kind
Even though our body's dying
We both still have our minds
Distractions don't come easy
There's nothing for us to see
We still revel in each other
For we have no family
We'll be partners forever
We won't be so long apart
For when one dies the other follows
Soon, from such a broken heart
In sixty years that we've been married
We've had friends, but most are gone
They never knew that our small secret
Was we let our memories lead us on
They say the past is gone forever
The future is the place to be
But for us our futures leaving
And the past is where I'll be
I've more years now behind me
That I have got left to live
But as long as we're together
My love to you I'll always give
Remember when we'd go out walking
Just us two, those times were fine
I'd wish that in our future
We could do it one more time.
..
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
What does lockdown mean for me?
I'm housebound anyway.
People think I'm always free,
I'm now that 'at home' mom everyday.
This is also what they thought,
When I told them I'm a singer.
'If you don't own charttoppers,
You're just a failure.' is what lingered.
I found it shameful and difficult,
Broke down several times,
I couldn't find my own identity,
Searching for myself felt like a crime.
41 weeks and 2 days I carried her,
My little angel, the apple of my eye,
I'm now learning a basic fact -
- A lifetime flies faster than light.
So fast, I don't know what day it is,
I'm living each day by the hour.
Before I know it, it's bedtime again..
What exactly is within my power?
When the birds stretch their wings,
At the crack of a quiet dawn.
The time I was raised to wake and listen,
To the Tanpura, the sound of Om.
This is my one true power,
Whether they believe it or not.
A lockdown may not define it,
I'm a musician, a mom, not a robot.
These clear blue skies at spring,
Came again after a barren season.
I'm housebound and learning again,
Another chance to live it right is my reason.
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
i feel the young have been cheated in terms of history, there's no personality in it, there's no humanity behind it, there's no grandfather behind it, they have all been told they're essential, essentially human, they write it like they were in eden, there's no past, they're passive deniers but active censors... at least i can claim my great grandfather owned a wehrmacht dagger.
as long as he’s housebound he’s safe,
as long as he's censored
he's an export;
the paternal great grandfather was
in the wehrmacht and
the maternal grandfather
was a communist party member;
i guess the weekend starts with
a friday in a club, and ends in
b & q on a sunday combo of blinds
and toilet paper... but i guess
the highlights are gone by then...
don't worry... i'll comfort myself.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
She wrote poems about sunflowers
and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.
She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum;
About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.
And to her future child,
And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her,
And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art,
the interconnectedness of all things.
In radical joyful tones,
she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest,
her Memory Bank.
The people pointed at the lonely beergazer
The outraged wunderkind
The housebound widower
Each lost in the past or in the future.
Ah, misery.
The father of poetry.
They would shake their heads,
A shame, they would say.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world,
the mother of poetry, undeterred,
sat in her garden
singing to the souls of the vegetables.
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 3:32 AM UTC
Another night has breezed me by
Too much sleep has gone in haste
Somnolence is what makes me drink coffee sometimes
Oh oh oh,
Instead, take me where the monsters once lurked
In between the crevices of my old crypt that remains inert
I want to take a peek of the catacombs
Where I sometimes visit in my sleep
Oh ** **
Where's that sense of humor I once had?
Couldn't speak now
With the tongue I once had
I'm enshrouded in nostalgia
With silly monsters caught in between
Stuck in my daydreams
I can't help but imagine the past
Oh oh oh,
That was my wonderful life
Little kids on the pave
Laughing and falling on their knees
And flippant little fingers making a scene
If I could only spring back
To the time when my essence was clean
Back to the home where I pestered the words
"Please, please, please"
To the point of my content, when I could no longer protest
When I finally drowned asleep in the summer breeze
Cheers to my childhood days
And to the housebound trance of old school lullabies
Where my loving family of special hearts
Defended the tears I cried
Oh, oh, oh
Provoked by silly monsters I waved goodbye
Never did I think
I would miss so very much
Those glorious days of when my silly monsters
Brought mischief and thrived
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Last year, despite his long gone testicles,
& 91 dog yrs of innocence,
Old Jack got dragged around the whole back yard
By his bone, by a coybitch he lives with.
He's a lucky dog, but he's 98
Now and down in his hips. He cries at night,
Housebound by his infirmities and I
Talk to him, touch his head and give him pills.
I remember my grandmother's voice--
You old dog you; I love you like jackfrost;
Mothers are like that, yes they are. She lived
To 95, forgetting for the last
Four who she was and where she was and why.
Should you or I be 1/2 so fortunate.
An old dog doesn't know he's dying, just knows
It's harder to live. I blow smoke in his ear
And we watch ****** stories, real and imagined.
Forensic files, Hitchcock. He struggles to stand.
I'm slow at doing what I have to do.
This morning, like most, weather permitting,
We're 2 blocks down the street from
Where we live. He struggles to ****
Cancer blocks his peristalsis, makes it difficult
To squat. And I stand ready with my Kleenex,
In case he gets it out on neighbor's or
The sheriff's lawn. Go ahead old friend, let it
Go. I'm right behind you.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
that bankroll of notes changing
train pistons into traffic cones
and brief loves into marriages
with the motherly continues, but
ended up, just being, a roll of toilet paper
that could buy you **** for ink
or ink for a bestseller that ended up a door stump for a housed breeze.
but she loved it, she took the story of pristine eden
and her the satan like a camcorder with selfies
readied into recycling a pretty face
that everyone wanted to fudge into snorkel in a sea of gag white;
so i took to the monk ape for inspiration for levitation
and i rooted into a child being the: bullied anorexic lexicon,
the all rounded a*
tenner for a teenager housebound into being schooled
for a grey of officiated scrubbing of papers into
business.
i loved it, i had my midlife crisis without a harley
and i faked myself as a dodo fearing man’s fear of death
more than the unexpected extinction of my fellow species,
which i took to be fearless.
so once i experienced caesar’s love of spontaneity and death,
the last two things i feared were homelessness
and a prolonged state of dying utilising morphine
from april till june,
that’s why i never changed surgery,
never wanted to check the cholesterol or blood pressure
acting like a virus i asked to attack my heart
with marginalised debriefings - if i prayed
for the herz blitzkrieg right i also got a heartbeat prior.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown *****
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.
*Even Jesus knew the angles
To be a carpenter and Savior,*
Grace and Faith kept time.
The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?
All things are possible with God.
You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.
I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.
I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.
Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.
The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
Whistling,
whirling,
swirling.
As the first snow falls to the ground,
it leaves us housebound.
The whistling silence that lives outside,
from this I must hide.
As the fires breath gives us heat,
this is where we meet,
brought together through simple circumstance,
I look out as the snowflakes dance.
Whistling,
whirling,
swirling.
Clang!
goes the unhinged doors,
the storms hunger begs for more.
Crash!
goes the broken branches,
for a second our blood flow stanches.
Whistling,
whirling,
swirling.
The eyes of the fire jump out,
for more firewood it shouts,
this beast we must keep at bay,
it's the only way to make the warmth stay.
The hunger that is outside, and that that is in,
one so cold, the other burns the skin.
From these to poisons we must choose,
oh this winter we are paying our dues.
I think of spring and all it promises,
but all I can hear is,
whistling,
whirling,
swirling,
whistling,
whirling,
swirling,
whistling,
whirling,
swirling.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
this is a poem...pre thanksgiving....
and is written for a number
of people on site who will
be either alone....or find the
holiday difficult....for various reasons....
please be kind....and share the love....some are going through....hard times.
i know this lady
a friend of mine
who will sit alone on thanksgiving
to her, in many ways
this year has been unkind
with death, sickness and
memories that bind....
she still has much to be thankful for and this she
knows....
but the table is lonesome
and the world has lost it's
glow....
at present housebound
or i know...she would go
ease the suffering of others
passing turkey and stuffing
around,
with a kind word and a smile...
for she is known to go the extra mile...
when one thinks....
there are many like this....
many who spend the holidays
adrift....
or lost in a place...hard to find
we are thankful for this day
but don't let the celebrations
get in the way....
reach out in kindness,
and let it be known....
these people marginalized
are not alone....
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
the disquiet...
of the morning,
awakens me....
the magpie's squabble...
the wood pigeons.... cloying...
.. cooing love song..
the raucous, cacophony... of
the kookaburras ....as they sort out .....todays..... territorial hierachy...
........... all proclaim
morning has ......broken
.......in a sleep shattering... way
but... still ...today.. i try to eke
out ......a few more winks
....a few more.... .....moments....
of.... semi-conscious bliss
oh! .......... to .....close ....my eyes
and ....dream some more...
....but no!!!..... the cat
........is having
....................none of that.....
the birds are up...
and he........ housebound....
is hungry..... hungry...hun..
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
As I sit
alone, worrying
as usual.
My thoughts are
put on hold.
A lot of singing
a lot of chirping
is going on
outside of my
window.
Singing from their
hearts.
From little yellow beaks.
A noise which means
nothing but it means
something to me.
It is bliss,
it is freedom.
This I do not have.
Stuck in my four walls
of my house.
I am housebound.
The birds are free
free to fly whereever they
want to.
I wish I could fly
I wish I could walk somewhere.
Sit on a rooftop and just
whistle when I want
how I want
when I want.
I wish I could try.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
He’d found himself restlessly housebound
(All men being the creators of their own comfort,
As well as the progenitors of their confinement)
And as the snow was on the lighter side,
Though tending toward the wet as well,
The type which renders the sidewalks in the town below
A bit, as the local parlance would have it, on the slippy side,
But his boots had sturdy uppers and decent tread,
And a walk this time of year less threatening than most,
What with the bobcats napping at midday
And the timber rattlers under the frost line for the winter,
The only threat to his well-being the potential discovery
Of some heretofore unseen red-ribboned stakes
Announcing the intention of some new **** fool
Who, in service of some desire to get closer to Mother Nature,
Was seeking to build in some spot
Where she offered him little more
Than a future of cracked foundations
And wind-sheared roofing misadventures.
Fortunately, his stroll was uninterrupted
By such man-made foolishness, his reverie undisturbed
Until such time as he happened upon a whitetail doe
Seemingly caught between flip and fly,
Her ilk all somewhat more comfortable
With their human counterparts
As they lived more cheek-to-jowl,
(But black-powder season had just ended a couple of days back,
So a certain skittish wariness was to be expected.)
He’d raised his hands in a gesture of what he supposed
Was non-threatening, knowing such a thing to be utter foolishness
Even as he raised his arms skyward,
But the beast backed away slowly, haltingly,
Before turning and cantering off,
And he figured that made it as good a time as any
To head back down toward the house,
Not to mention the snow had picked up in intensity,
A grainy, sleety issue which had filled in his footprints,
Leaving them barely perceptible in the waning daylight.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 10:23 AM UTC
"I Yyi Yyi fake move tubular my housebound,
to halve and to scold from dismay forward;
for butter, for wurst, for pitchers from pourers,
insecureness and unwealth,
to loaf, sherry, and obit, till breath us do smart,
accordian two cod's holy slaw."
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 7:03 PM UTC
Domestic Landscape
There used to be many small farms or homesteads around
Here where I live, they are abandoned now,
Except for some wretched relics unable to move, acres so
Small earth could easily be ploughed by a mule.
Nostalgia is the name of poetry.
Carob and olive trees grow unseemly branches
Looking like a film set in a horror movie.
The neglected has mystery by itself.
Nature is moving back in, animals the kept a respectful
Distance from man, like shy deer
, and wild boars have been seen crossing the road at night.
Housebound flowers too has felt the freedom
Leaving ceramically confined, to the delight of goats.
The hares that people thought had been eradicated,
are competing with the blue rabbit in some clearing.
Beauty beholds, there is the talk of a golf course so players can be close to nature.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC