"jammies" poems
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
Somewhere down in the depths of everyone, there is a spinning plate,
The Devil holds his stick parallel to yours and watches as you sweat,
You rip the sticky bottom of the bottle off of the glue and stick your bucket out to catch the fall,
The Devil plants his loafers and casually crosses one leg over the other,
Sometimes you even change the channel and pray that the entertainment value fills your cup,
The Devil licks the sides of your ice cream cone and draws faces in your food,
You drop your *** into the bean bag cloud and strum the buttons on your controller,
The Devil places the headset on his burning head and boils your water as you sit in the corner of the room, ignoring the kitchen,
Someone passes by with a similar stride and you turn a single glance into the Vietnam War,
The Devil sinks into the sofa and picks the fuzzies off of his jammies.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I tried to write a lullaby
With a 70's theme of sorts
Kids drinking Sunny "D" in their jammies
Girls in Mindy, Boys in Mork
But that's as far as I could get
This dried up crinkly brain stays in a daze
So I picked up the phone, dialed up some friends
In hopes of a friendly Friday night game of charades
Of course Sylvester brought his Ouija board
He thinks with the other side he's in tune
I hate to break it to Houdini here
But I think he's inhaled to many fumes
My friends say that I'm just paranoid
Like a jester without a court
So I turn and apologize to Sylvester
Okay dude, pull out the board
We place our fingers on the Doohickey
Or is that the Thingamajig
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, is all that it spells
As Sylvester has a fit
He knocks the game table over
And screams it's that movie, The Shining all over again
This is ****** spelled backwards people
As the smell of the dead blows in on the wind
In all of the dark spirit world excitement
I think I even pee'd myself
I suggest in a manly way with a wet spot on the front of my Bell Bottom jeans
That we put the Ouija board back up on the shelf
I really wasn't expecting an evening
Of doom and gloom and tombs and such
I think I'll go back to writing that 70's lullaby
If you don't mind...thank you very much
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
So there I was one Thursday night
Just kickin' back alone in my bed
Got my jammies on & pillows fluffed
With one arm tucked under my head
Staring off into space, lost in thought
'til I saw something move on my wall,
above me was a pretty big spider
skipping along frantically, trying not to fall
but fall he did, & he landed close by
as I laid there frozen with fear
at first I couldn't tell if he intended to cuddle or bite
then ever so slowly he began to draw near
his gaze settled on me with uncertainty
with his six or eight little eyes
then he brushed up against me ever so gently
I just kept still and whimpered & cried
Apparently he was smitten with me
And so chose a spot on my hand to sit
I couldn't tell him I don't like him like that
"No spider, Not even…A little…Bit."
Then I said "Spider – This could get crazy
With all of our legs entwined"
"you with eight, and me with two,
In total that's ten legs combined."
He looked really sad, and I felt kinda bad
Because a love like his is quite rare
So it went from being a one night stand
To this now complicated affair.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
Big gulp of porridge
Just for designated jammies
just before the bus stops,
just as long as there's no homework.
Long shot across town
Just 'cause cops are special,
just when the wife was yappin'
just one too many drinks again.
Deep breath underwater
just to wake up a bit,
just to celebrate the submarine,
just as the room runs out of air.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 3:39 PM UTC
A plate of cookies, A glass of milk. On the table next to the tree, With nothing to see.
We went to sleep. Without a sound, Santa came with a bound
He went through his bundle As we are asleep
He went up the chimney, without making a sound.
As the morning sunrises, We jumped out of bed. Still in our jammies.
Ran to our stocking to see what Santa has given us.
Under the Christmas tree, Some presents for us.
We all went out on a Christmassy Party, It was a blast
As the night drawn by, We had goodies to take home.
As soon as we're home, We were all tired and a little cold.
We took a warm cozy blanket and warm ourselves, We ended our night with a cup of hot chocolate in our hands.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
Welcome 2021
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 8:42 AM UTC
Heartache.
*It's more than an evening or weekend
Of ice cream and fine chocolate,
When listening to love songs,
Or watching rom coms on the couch
In jammies--*
It's in all those nights of crying
While clutching at your pillow,
Begging for some semblance of solace.
It's in waking walking wandering wondering.
While looking down at your chest,
In every other even odd moment of consciousness
To check if the hole in your heart
Is finally visible from the outside.
It's that deep breath inhaled;
To counter the effects of the memories he gave,
That enables you to breathe again,
And the rapid blinking that keeps your eyes dry--
For just a little longer...
It's in re-building that wall.
Remember the wall? *The one you tore down
To let him in?*
Only, it's a shade darker than the last time.
Heartache is that deep, bottomless
Feeling of drowning
In misery and rejection
From the one person
You singled out from the crowd.
It's that overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia;
Which tells you,
*'If you're not with him,
You'll go celibate!'*
It's that ghost of a kiss,
That threatens to be the death of you;
It haunts your lips in your pale reality.
It's that hollow heart
That longs for his warmth, his arms
Those dreams of his beating heart next to yours;
Helping you regenerate
Only to be broken with sunrise, in emptiness.
When those unforgiving rays heat up everything,
But you're still freezing...
It's that poisoned apple you ate;
It runs in your veins.
Refusing to be digested,
Causing that overbearing chronic ache
That makes you want to scream out
In pure agony--
Making you wish,
'If only he stayed!'
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
“Important message from Pioneer credit to cover Inc. my name is Larry Stevens requires a visor is communication is from a debt collection company is attempt to collect a debt and information jammies purpose please call my office at 1-888-287-4431 please use reference 125-**** to get my name is Larry Stevens please call me back at 1-888-287-4431 thanks…”
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
Hip hop, gonna stop
on the bright blue square.
Run, jump, fall like a lump.
on the green ground bare.
Laugh and dash, and water splash
in the sunshine sparkle.
Smile and giggle, toes they wiggle
in the black mud darkle.
Playing silly, warm and chilly
dusk is setting in.
Wandering home, all alone,
in the tub again.
Splish, splash, clean in a flash
jammies on real quick.
Bedtime story, oh the glory,
on a dreamland kick.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
I want to wake up when I want
And then slowly get to my feet.
I want to have a breakfast
That is very much like a treat.
I want to dawdle over my coffee
And take lazy, leisurely stock.
And, I want to do all of this
Without waking to a clock.
For I hate that awful buzzing
That it takes to shake me awake.
I find the racket ruins dreams
And is too much for me to take.
I want to sit where late morning
Sends its sweet shine in on me
While I sup and sip and dine
Like a member of royalty.
Oh, I am not so snooty myself
That I don’t prepare this repast
With my own two clever hands
And at that, amazingly fast.
It’s almost like my hands want
To hide from my waking mind
That the meal I am having is not
Not the made by Ritz-Carlton kind.
I want to waken to cognizance
In a particularly decadent way.
I find it totally disgusting to
Rush madly into any given day.
I’d sit in smoking jacket and slippers
If I had such magazine attire.
And if it were chilly upon rising
I would magically manifest a fire.
Of course I don’t have a fireplace
To go right along with plain jammies
So instead of brocade robes and such
I very short of mystical whammies.
I can’t witch up this storybook stuff
Of class A, high-class pomposity.
But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wish
To have it all appear before me.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
No porch yet;
just green grass hills for miles,
glass skies filled to the brim
with clouds .
No time to the day on this weekend;
just existence.
Long dirt roads smell of tobacco,
old barns perfect for hide and seek,
hours outside lost and found
on our two acre piece of inheritance
No porch yet
crying for us to keep inside
and grow up;
taking away my youth.
Woods with thick clay dirt
hit my face— “on accident Mom…”
I can breathe in my youth again
before the trees that shelter me now
are replaced by shingles and wood.
That ***** fun of my youth
cleansed my pores
in big murky ponds
my youthful spirit may very soon be pushed away,
by a porch, built for parties.
Until that time
it was the sunsets that pushed me inside
to the smell of dad’s spaghetti;
variations of the same basic recipe.
I saw smiles and laughter
Dishes cleaned as we were bathed.
Bathtub bubbles rained puddles on the floor.
Wet and naked laps around the house
“ANDREA LEAH! Get your naked **** back here
and get your jammies on!”
Never had time to dry off completely
just wanted to dance around.
Damp bodies eventually squeezed into
barbie doll underwear and pink frilly nightgowns.
A rock in the big comfy recliner-
inescapable,
the day is going to end
before the stars shine bright
against the green grass and black night sky.
Luckily, there is no porch yet.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 1:39 PM UTC
GIRL:
Sorry darling, I hadda put a poem out there.... Yes, indeed, I have read your other emails. I would like to respond but I have got to make a quick sandwich first and get some hangout/jammies on.
MAN::
what color ******* u wear with jammies
GIRL:
today I have on bikini ******* that are white w little blue flowers. I will go commando in my jammies ....
MAN:
hot both ways I am sure
GIRL:
what about you? what do you have on?
MAN:
a very large smile
Girl:
Nice. Very nice.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
saturday night dates
turn to tv dinners
you forget when the last time
he surprised you with roses was
you no longer wake up
to make him breakfast before work
he no longer calls you
in the middle of the day
unless, of course,
it's to remind you to pick up his laundry
dressing up
is limited to social gatherings
you're in your jammies when he gets home
*** becomes routine
it's no longer passionate, more like a tiresome duty
your **** lingerie is pushed to the back of the closet
& truthfully, he doesn't seem to care much
you'd rather be on the phone
than talking to each other
you don't crave him the way you did
he's no longer interested in the world inside your head
*"how was work?" "fine"
"how are you?" "okay"*
he tells you he loves you
but it doesn't mean much anymore
honestly speaking, its all become a bore
being with him just means more chores
i guess that's the thing about love
it wears out
the magic can only last so long
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
A morning in my jammies
Drinking a cup of tea
The tea was Strawberry Ginger
And it was made just for me.
I added a teaspoon of sugar
So it would be a little sweet
On this Sunday morning
It was a relaxing treat.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
A Tornado Coming In A Poor Neighborhood
What did you find out? I asked
my wife. She said nothing. I said
it hasn’t stormed. She spoke it
does not matter. The TV is not
working. Must be another storm
I said. The sky was darkening
quickly although it took a half hour
for everything to get thoroughly
black. Booms came from the west.
Big Jack from across the street
called and said I should beware.
A tornado was coming. I asked
from where. He said he did not
know, and that I should go down
the basement. I told Jack I had
none. He said what. I hung up.
I told my wife to be ready to get
under the bed. She said where
was that. I said the one in our
bedroom. She said oh and got her
jammies on. I told her not to moan
or worry, that we would be fine.
From next door kids started to yell
and say no school. Arthur Lang came
over and wanted my gun. I said Art
I sold it. He said that was stupid. For
some reason I closed my garage door.
I asked my wife to tell the kids if I
died that I did love them an awful lot
even if I was black and ugly poor.
Daniel Gallik
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
As I lie here
In my jammies
I think of you
I log on
My dear account
And see your smiling face
I start a chat
And we laugh
And cry
And then I say
From the bottom of my heart
"I love you"
And I can see
That you love me too
Because you
Sent me a heart
Made of < and 3
And I blew a pixelated kiss
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
The older I am
The older I get
Finding myself doing the same
Thing, again and again
Nothing in life
Ever much changes
I'm so predictable
But then you knew I would say this
It all has to do
With my attitude
But then again
This tidbit you knew
I wake in the mornings
Shower and shave
The very same way
I do every day
I put on my trousers
One leg at a time
First with the left
Then with the right
Same with my shoes
I follow suit
First with the left
Well, you know what I do
A bowl of Cheerios
Every morning for breakfast
I've done this before
So you know that I've got this
After all that
I let the cat out the back
Where he starts the first of many
Afternoon naps
Down on the corner
By 8:05
And just like I am
The bus is always on time
I'm predictable
In all I do and say
Just looking at me
Gives that away
I get to the office
Sit down at my desk
And just like the cat
All day I nap
Back at the corner
By 5:05
Here comes the bus
Still right on time
Make it back home
Let the cat in
Sit down to dinner
Me and my feline friend
Predictable
In all that I do
My trouser routine
Works for my jammies too
Exactly at 9
I'm tucked into bed
So I'm fresh in the morning
To do it all over again
I'd tell you different
But won't play you the fool
Cause we all know that I am
Predictable
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
Grief rides with me
wherever I go,
whether I walk
around the house
in my jammies,
read a poem
to a group
of strangers,
or watch a flower bud
burst open-
each breath knows
what use to be
will not come back.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
My worthy adversaries across the dais would have you believe
That, having fashioned mankind in His own image
And, what’s more, sacrificed His own son
For the sole purpose of its collective salvation,
Our Maker would, in effect,
Simply shrug his shoulders and send it on its merry way.
Free to fall, those arguing the negative will tell you.
Ah, but there’s more than that: not only do they insist
That The Creator has for all intents and purposes abandoned us,
But has allowed an equally powerful and diametrically opposed force
To set up shop on his watch.
I would ask them--what drabble of Scripture,
What logical premise would you cite to support such madness?
But surely, my learned opponents would purr,
(Oh, every bit as sly as devils themselves!)
You would not deny the existence of evil in this world.
Morons! Can it somehow be possible
That you are completely ignorant of the work of Augustine?
Tell me, after you finish your warm milk
And button up your snuggly jammies,
When you flick off the light switch, does the dark come out?
Or is your grasp of physics and philosophy equally inadequate?
I suppose, in a last, desperate attempt to buttress their arguments,
The supporters of the opposite position
Will contend my presence in this lecture hall
Is necessary and sufficient for their argument to carry the day.
I categorically deny the supposition!
I do not exist, nor can I!
Hang your forensic skills on that,
You bunch of ******* saintly *********
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
Not that he was light on his feet before,
But Twinkle doesn’t dance anymore.
He doesn’t talk a lot, and when he does
It’s jumbled and mumbled, we make a fuss
Trying to understand just what he means
Up/down, left/right, yes/no, joggers/jeans
When once he’d clear a buffet in a blink
He won’t eat his lunch, let alone drink.
He made mowing look easy, I struggle
And instead of him I’m the one the dog cuddles.
As wobbly as me on ten pints or more
Inevitably we’d both end on the floor
Always clean shaven has turned awry
With a full blown beard it’s another guy
Sat watching the same **** telly
New fancy chair and slightly smaller belly.
Twinkle gets grumpy when there’s a cannula to insert,
Doesn’t trust the nurse when she said it wouldn’t hurt.
Breathing was easy for Twinkle last year
But not so now, it’s why we’re here
Waiting for a bed in a place where there’s plenty,
The problem is that none of them are empty.
Doctors a-plenty and many nurses too,
The only thing lacking is something to do.
In Game of Thrones jammies he sits in his chair,
He says he’s hot rather be in underwear
Or anywhere I think, just not on this ward
As everyone here is terminally bored.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
But What About the Dog?
Bedtime is a poem written with love:
You change into your jammies at 8 o’clock
You wash your hands and face, you brush your teeth
You kneel beside your bed and say your prayers
And then the dog leaps up onto your pillow
And then your mother says the dog can’t stay
And then you plead, and doggie looks so sad
And then your mother sighs and says, “All right,
“But only for tonight,” then kisses you
(but not the dog)
Childhood is a poem written with love
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
Fresh shower and a shave
First one I've had in days
Clean pressed jammies, and new sheets
Off to meet the girl of my dreams
I pull down tight on the shades
Hoping against hope I'm not running late
We get together most Saturday nights
When I pull up the covers and shut out the lights
I often wonder where we'll go
As neither of us ever really knows
Where the mind travels in its comatose state
Or where dream girls like to go on dates
We might end up at some fancy dance
Or a beach somewhere in the South of France
It all depends on her or is that depends on me
When I'm out cold with the girl of my dreams
Sometimes I play her hero well
But not that super if the truth I must tell
Slowing moving as if in a dream
Most Saturday nights in my sleep
Over time she has never changed
In fact even I look pretty much the same
Whenever we have a chance to meet
Out on a date with the girl of my dreams
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 8:36 AM UTC
#
*And you ask me why I have cared for so very long..
why I love you the way that I do--
down on the floor, (arms raised like a little child)
asking me to hold you. <3
And late at night, fully spent
from the amount of work that it takes
just, to survive another day, trying. crying
on the edge of the bed, (arms raised like a little child)
wanting me to help you put those warm,
flannel-jammies on.
When your heart barely beats anymore its
own life-giving pulse, and your lungs are no longer able to find air
You turn towards me,
and ask me to breathe in to you--
arms raised..
like a beautiful, little child.*
#
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 1:29 AM UTC