"occupant" poems
#
***Is it the wave kissing the sand
or is it the ocean
deep from her heart
sometimes gently,
often hard,
but always with passion?
Is it the sand kissing back
or is it the land
happily losing ground
with every kiss
to his eternal mistress,
the occupant of his soul?***
#
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world
The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel
Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way
And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today
The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call
From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul
Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance
But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance
Now Paul has found his one and only
Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely
Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot
Just seventeen in a flying machine
The weather turned black so she headed back
But her boyfriend intervened
Now close if I may - here's what I say
Trust yourself - the odds break your way
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Why does this darkness exist? The power to bring death and destruction
So quickly it came to rest at his fingertips–am I still human?
It appeared as a vortex of shadows–he thought it a hallucination
It was insane and all too real, he could not resist stepping into the swirling dark
He thought it meant the end, but he was wrong
The unending black, still, and quiet
He found security
What does it mean when the “inner you” is silent?
Black tower, his home, wherever it stands, a spiral stair, sharp spines, sheer design
Black throne, occupied
Black blade, the edge of balance, cutting through eternity
What is in between black and white?
This is the effect of light, across space and time
Sitting at the center of his world, thinking, brooding, asking questions you are afraid to answer
What do you see when you look into your own eyes?
Testing those who call for it, testing you
Making people prove themselves–do you really know what life and love are?
Digging deep, bearing water from the well of notions
What things do you do or say because of your fears?
I will not leave until I crack every porcelain mask
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 3:56 PM UTC
My father has a problem.
He listens to all this conspiracy,
whilst drinking a beer or 5 every night.
Instead of spending time with my mother and I.
I've started to dread family dinners as all they do is instil hate in me,
he talks about death and killing and yet knows nothing of me.
My dad doesn't remember my birthday most days,
this year he couldn't remember my mum's.
And I can't live in a house where one occupant stinks of *****
Where a family slowly starts to break.
My father is an alcoholic,
but the only one who won't admit it is he.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
1475
Fame is the one that does not stay—
Its occupant must die
Or out of sight of estimate
Ascend incessantly—
Or be that most insolvent thing
A Lightning in the Germ—
Electrical the embryo
But we demand the Flame
3.8k
descendants of those left behind,
they found fellowship with
a singularly brutal environment,
free roaming meanderers
of a crepuscular exclusion zone,
having trekked into
the camps of liquidators
to beg for scraps,
they nosed into empty buildings
and found safe places to sleep,
stopping at Café Desyatka
for some borscht,
the guides speak only of
visitor or occupant,
there are no tourists here,
only the genetically distinct
Mar 13, 2023
Mar 13, 2023 at 10:05 AM UTC
Doctor or Dentist
An enormous raindrop fell under an umbrella and nearly
drowned the occupant under it. A dentist came opened her mouth
and being ethical pulled out the wrong teeth.
Another man came said he was a doctor and told the dentist
to stop, the dentist said I too am a doctor, and rotten teeth
are sorry for the health, even a pill pusher like you ought to know;
The dentist was rude because he was fed up not being called a doctor.
it came to blows. Meanwhile, an ambulance came
picked up the nearly drowned lady and stopped the fight between
the two medical professionals, the skirmish made the dentist
happy because the ambulance had said; you doctors should not
fight in public.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 4:25 AM UTC
Do you go to service. why?
Maybe someone drags you in for your salvation or some such.
What do you believe. I have long released that process as a constant.
Like anything else on this plane. somebody gotta lose for someone else to gain.
Yes that is a bit wooden.
A bit cynical.
Do you feel the spirit as you enter.
What does that feel like and do you agree with all you hear and see.
What do you believe.Is the person up there speaking to you?
Do you take it all in.Or are you sight seeing. I do.
The backs of peoples heads are like monoliths.
Their faces are like masks. Not all but most.
Doubting Thomas in the pews.
The casket sits on display. It beckons and forbids.
The slow procession to absolution.
The occupant sleeps peacefully.
A shell.
Heaven or Hell.
The solemn drone. The Joyous noise.
The shrill and sweaty face of Fire and brimstone.
The call and response.
The well oiled ,stiff proceedings.
what do you believe.
Maybe you draw the lottery on Saturday
The Lord is our Sheppard. We shall not want.
Blasphemy you say.
No I am a believer.
I believe that we are.
For now and a wisp forever after.
A daunting prospect. But who knows. Faith.
The pews have been the uprising and the downfalling of many
Freedom or indoctrination
Left to our own devices. Hell's door agape.
a fertile mind, weak and troubled will gently lite on the word
then draw sustenance
for good
For ill.
The gates that lead to destruction are wide
and broad is the way.
The pews are narrow and finite.You will find me there
from time to time.
.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
Rising rents
Doesn’t seem to care
Who they affect
The City could care less
The mayor giving
Tax breaks
Playing high stakes
With peoples lives
The landlord
Controlling the soundboard
With rent control
Now seen as a nuisance
No one used to want to live here
But now they do
They say there is not enough housing
To fit they appetites
Well don’t be so hungry
Don’t be so greedy
Share a space
Don’t displace
Contemplate actions
Homeless shelters
Next to highrises
Single occupant
Apartments
Could fill ten beds
Instead of one head
Even Jack gets kicked out
The bar that supplies the ghost
Is a poetic footnote
To the money hungry
Seeing dollars
Instead of history
The nations remaining
Black bookstore
Painted The Color Purple
Now shut down
By monied clowns
Stating their needs for millions
Over millions who need
Books
Culture
Life
Instead of
****** glossed over history
Without a shred of the past
Marcus Books
Where Malcolm, Ali, Davis
Gathered
Now lost
To the highest bidder
People come
People go
But the erosion of history
Is a swift reality
Of the gentrification
Of The City
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
~
irreverent place
on a laundry room shelf,
his is a figure serene.
source of comfort?
source of peace?
perhaps...
but oh, so much
more than that...
this is a crossroads
where absolution meets
the gritty mundane,
where he became
her source of familiarity.
*"good morning, Sweet Jesus,
i'm just here to wash
my ***** laundry."*
no sacrilege here,
no... nothing profane.
from the hand outstretched
held out for the taking
who is this really,
this chalk figurine?
in tranquility certain,
a doorway between
human fragility and
perfection divine.
in life’s messy journey
our ***** laundry aside
how could one not feel,
more rinsed of life's stains?
Sweet Jesus, of course
divine cleanser, unseen
now, here on my mantle
my house feels more clean!
~
*post script.
when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!” and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus! you are out of the closet... forever!!”*
*no sacrilege whatsoever intended
i dearly hope you'll not be offended!*
:-) Steve
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Rolling-Twisting-Wafting
Distorted cloudy mask
Seized-Enveloped-Constrained
Perverting wicked task
Tasteless-Loveless-Breathless
Compulsory tears are wept
Ambitious-Precocious-Delirious
Perceived utterly inept
Occupant-Observant-Defiant
Definitive answers slurred
Perception-Discretion-Revolution
Autonomy from the herd
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC
There is a car parked where the block begins
and there are people singing praises
Say it's all because of him
And there is a bird perched on a frayed wet wire
and his voice sings out for a lover
but it's covered by the choir of voices
reaching way beyond the rafters
With devotion they perform these sacred tasks
They cross themselves and offer up their checkbooks
Slight suffering is not too much to ask
Besides, we are all making money
and we are all ******* alone
and we don't know what we are doing
Maybe just buying us some hope
because we know that we are lonely
Yeah, lonely that's for sure
And the older ones are coughing
And the older ones are dying
Maybe we are all dying
I pass a graveyard on my way to work
Today I saw two dozen white roses
on a fresh new mound of dirt
and I wondered about the occupant
When the darkness finally swallowed him was he calm and content
or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing,
ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed,
crying out loud for someone to help him
and collapsing on his back all pale and dead?
Maybe it's me who's this unstable,
always obsessed about the end
Why can't I let what happens happen
and just enjoy the time I spend?
Oh how I wish it was so easy
but when there is no point to anything it can get a bit confusing
Why is it that I keep going?
Why is it that we keep going?
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
The shackles,
so inviting.
You need no control.
Give your control to the shackles,
They love it…that’s what they are meant for right?
Take control from the occupant.
He must obey.
Must be taken away.
To where?
He has no say,
The shackles love the control
And he loves the powerlessness.
Nothing is expected,
Nothing needed,
He gets joy from being powerless
Powerless of what happens and free
Everything is let go.
No memories, responsibilities,
the shackles have taken it all away
The shackles love the control
You just need to get away.
The relationship gives both just what they need,
At least they think, at least for a second.
One more drop, their grip grows tighter.
Take it all, not just some.
“sure another”
They beckon and you ponder
Then he tips it back.
Both think this is what needs to happen
Made up their mind
Another down
just let it happen
the shackles love the control
take it from me,
all worries,
pain,
everything,
it’s their’s not mine.
He thinks.
The shackles love the control.
His eyes open, no shackles in sight.
Just empty bottles and a faint light.
He thinks it’s going to be ok, at least by tonight.
Knowing he’ll feel the familiar metal clamped tight.
as he grips the glass in fright.
Scared of it all
The memories,
The empty thoughts,
The unresponsiveness of the sky.
He gives up, gives it all up
Throws the key,
And just lets it be.
Clamped tight for the night
He has let go of it all
Thanks to the cold remedy he thinks heals him so well…
Until his eyes open on another glimps of light
In an unfamiliar place
Maybe this will finally end him of this destructive chase.
Or to another breakdown,
Maybe the same whirlwind
That he just spent the last 8 hours in
The shackles love the control.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
I felt your ghost sitting in that chair with me today.
I don't know when I took to sitting in it too
But I mean, it makes sense that I'd like it.
People develop the same tastes as their best friends,
And as their fathers.
When dad left you were their to make it
Not so bad.
And you didn't like dad very much
So you had no reservations
About adopting his chair as yours.
But then you left too
And six years later
The scars both of you left behind
Have only just now healed enough
For the chair to gain me as its occupant.
I reclined it it all the way today
And as the silence engulfed me
You and I cracked up together
And played video games while my dad
Sat there too: snoring,
Unable to stay up with his kids
To watch The Rugrats
Before putting them to bed.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Your contours that mark the sand
Depresses the earth into an outline
You are traces of a man
Hollowed out by the horror of your pain
Oh! Son of man, where is ye shame?
You are bound like an ox to a chain
Your body sways like a pendulum
As you lower and harvest their grain
Chains bind you to your fellow men
So that feet that once ran move now in defeat
They motion as a reminder of your labours
And the bond you have with your captors
Liberty, justice and all that was good
You were made to abandon for a morsel of food
"Yes Master, no Master, three bags full Master"
Baa the woolly sheep bleated in surrender.
Why let the dust of your labours
That fill the air with its derision
Settle willingly on your once dark skin
Mixing your blackness into a confusion
Black is the colour of your conscience
Black was the colour of your rituals
Black feet ran and black hands played
Black babies were the dawn of a new age
You let that slip through your fears
Your memory blurred by ashes
Your brain that incinerated your courage
Condemned you to the life of a savage
Rise up, son of man who fears freedom
Your traces will have no roots
An outline of your existence
Is a hollow grave without its occupant
Don't preach the Bible as your saviour
Unless you have more to offer
Don't mark your history by enslavement
And the heritage you were made to abandon
That chain that links your past
To a future that is bleak
Is a God of eternal bonds
Secured by your hidden Masters
Your children dance in the shadows of your enslavement
Morphing your chains into a cross
A freedom founded on great men and courage
Is short-lived by bitter recriminations
The ghettos, the drugs, the guns and deaths
The rap that is the anthem of your anger
Makes a chain between right hand and left
As your youth disappears forever
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
*In reverie to the particles that transmit your fragment
Nearly surrendered
Torpefy the passage of time
I'm counting on it to lead me to you*
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
**She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.
It was empty, that part of the faculty area apart from the tables, the afternoon light passing through the window and the ravines dividing the place.** Her spot was full of dust, past dated old calendars and dreams of its former occupant who was eaten by the ocean and drowned. Well, at least the rumor claimed.
I don’t know if it’s true, but everyone knows what the former occupant did last summer. It was about two weeks before her wedding when she ran away with her student. Both of them just disappeared from the circulation one day. During the early part of their absence, the staff and classmates assumed that the reason might have been just trivial, like a mere cough or a fever.
But time and weeks dragged on and both of them were gone. Nowhere to be found. No words were left. No notice either. Nothing. They simply disappeared, just like that. Like one day, they have decided not to exist in this conventional world anymore. Like a bubble ceasing to float.
They stayed in an island, it was said. Packed their bags with clothes, flash lights, canned goods – everything they could carry at a dead run. Then they hired a boat which carried them to their destination, but no one found out the existence of the boat. There was no trace. Not even a slight.
The island was remote, detached and unoccupied. People say they built a settlement somewhere in the area, made of woods, twigs, leaves and perhaps, love. But some says they have their tent, and it was where they dreamed their elusive dreams.
But a storm broke in the dead hour of the night, shaking their sleep. All the trees and vegetation swayed to and fro, trying to catch the unfamiliar song of the wind while avoiding the occasional bouts of the lightings.
It must have been beautiful, the entire universe in sheer panic, in the middle of the night, embracing you home.
Before they knew it the tide rose and the world quivered and the waves grew massive and rolled and crashed in that part of the island and that edge.
She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.
Nor did the island in its former spot. It was vacated, that part of the faculty area apart from the afternoon light passing through the window which overlooks the contour of the overlapping mountains.
I placed my bag on the table, took a pen and scribbled a note saying that I’d be back some other time. She must have been in her class but I cannot be sure.
I cannot see the ocean from here.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
Like a wet séance,
tea lights lined the
porcelain frame of the old
bucket tub, as if the
closed-eyed occupant
within its liquid depths
was trying to form
a connection between
what is and
what could have been.
One year since Chernobyl
erupted in your brain,
spotted like a favorite
sweatshirt in the lost and
found, it was snatched
up,
up,
and away
along with you and
who you used to be.
Brushed affectionately by
Death’s boney hand,
I wonder if anything
scares you
anymore.
I wonder if I could be fearless like you.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Would it be a cliché
If I say
the element
Of my nightmares
Is mostly her in your arms
Would it be a cliche
If I tell
You made a house
In my thoughts,
A permanent occupant.
Would it be a cliche
If I admit
The first light of day
Seems so heavy on my brows,
Without having you to wake up to.
Would it be a cliché
If I confess
You are the only one I can write about,
My words have a way of evolving
Themselves around you
Would it be a cliche
If my heart aches
At the way you say her name
You voice so gentle, barely concealing
The longings you have.
Would it be a cliche
If I say
The main element
Of my nightmares
Is her in your arms
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
I am the compulsive liar
The occupant of the sleeping quarters
Two doors on your left
Down the passageway
Tread carefully on the slithery porcelain floor tiles
Mind the shells
Mind me
I am the pretender
I do not look you in the eye
For fear of you peeking into my shattered soul
I bury my body in swathes of fabric
This, what you perceive
Is a carefully cultivated illusion
I ache to eject myself
Out of this repugnant figure
I am the nuisance
With a hint of remorse to keep me human
The whiner
Draining you
Please pardon me
As I seek
Absolution from overcompensating.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
When you walk into this room it's always like a little tornado hit it. You could find a mix of things lying around at any time - books, outer ware [hats, sweaters, the like], at least one journal and a pen or two on the floor, in addition to the collection of writing instruments on the unused children's desk. But above all, there will always be at least one instrument out of its case a guitar, ukulele, penny whistle, always within reach, though rarely played. Comfort objects. This is still a child's room though the occupant is no child [just look in the drawers, behind the bed, under books, secret places to discover more Adult things.] The walls are a light green [her mother had picked this color though the kid had wanted blue] and really, the only reason the occupant can handle living in this room semi-permanently is because of the art, poetry and books everywhere.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
upright, I display the dead
battery
of my dreams.
daylight
is the bald spot
of my father’s
god.
of late, rumors
have surfaced
in regards
to my mother’s
infamously
pastoral
aerobics.
how to jack
a scarecrow
off. how to go
unheard
by the occupant
of an outhouse.
most people are not women, and think
only
in birth
scenes.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
What can the rich know of hunger
Or the starved stark raving mad life
Pursued by those they call fortuneless -
Those who carry with them every penny of affection, rolling each coin along naked fingers, eyeing the emblem of trust engraved, the stubborn profile revealing merely one side of the man - will this one be kind to the touch
And once spent go farther than commercial advertisements could ever know, will the time spent be earned back by a truthsome look given freely and the admittance of wishing for more time with the other, more than the span of an hour within a night but wishing for a thousand nights further, mornings, afternoons, and twilights in between - serving only to waken and from the coins face glean that an hour has passed and while passing the mirror has changed its occupant: the trees outside have all turned green.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
There's plenty of sunlight here
With a tinge of love in every object
That you've touched
Welcome to my Utopia
Lace curtains, open windows,
A steaming cup of coffee in a gloomy afternoon,
Another cup awaits your attention ...
Welcome to my little world of expectations
Dressed up for an occasion
I'm standing in front of the mirror
My reflection awaits your complements
Welcome to my lonely world of longings
Tired eyes with smudged makeup
They need to know that they look no less beautiful
I turn to my other side
A lone tear trickles down my eye
Welcome to my world of wishful thinking
A double bed with two pillows
A single occupant
Awaiting the other one
Welcome to my world of hard realities
A broken frame with a torn picture
My hand runs down the emptiness of the captured moment
Living in the past every second
Welcome to my daily life
Sold out by my weary past and exhausted with my present
I open my cupboard and take out my old diary
I write another piece for you
Wishing that someday you realise the reasons behind them,
Welcome to a world where you belong !
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
The bus stops
on these roads,
plexi-glass shelters,
sit, collecting humans
and rain, wet wanderers
fleeing the sky.
He stares at his feet,
this moment's occupant,
huddled in his surplus camo-
jacket, safe and bearded.
This is my city
(there are many like it but this one is mine).
They plant baby palms
along these streets; they
unfurl and catch these winds,
soak up the rains, hide
the treatment centers
and meeting rooms,
gutter syringes and
cheap hotels.
It's lovely here in the spring.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC