"paneling" poems
My first impression of the children's hospital was how nice everything was. It was new, with fish tanks and red sofas; pastel windows which made pretty colors on the floor when the sun went through them; walls were freshly painted and everyone talked with a smile. Everything just looked so peaceful.
It wasn't until my second visit that I saw the flaws. I was sitting on one of the red couches, waiting for my name to be called, and I was looking at the fish tank. A little girl was pressed up to the glass telling her mother that she could see nemo. But when I looked closer, I saw a little fish turned over floating at the surface. A man behind the glass quickly pulled it out of the tank, but I saw. That's when I started noticing other things. Like the bloodstain on the cushion next to me. And the fact that a few tiles were missing from the floor. The wood paneling had scratches on it; one of the pastel windows was taped up; and every parent was smiling, but the little kids holding on to them kept asking what was wrong.
Maybe that's just how hospitals are. They want you to think that everything's okay; that all that goes on inside are couches and fishtanks. They think that if they write out the word HOSPITAL in bubbly pink letters people might get it into their brains that everything's okay. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a hospital. Masking pain only works for so long, until broken bits and pieces push their way through.
I think hospitals are just fish tanks. Everyone is put on display for doctors and visitors and things seem okay for a while, you know, until they aren't. When a little nemo dies, they send away his body and just replace him with another orange fish that people can look at. We are all the cracks in the pavement; elevators shut down for repair; a phantom pain that nobody wants to believe is real. If you stand far enough away; if you distance yourselves from anything close to the word hospital, you can just let yourself focus on the mask they put up. But once it's time, and you're sitting on a red couch in the lobby of the children's wing, with a kid asking you where her older brother went, you'll find yourself staring at the cracks in the facade with a single tear running down your face and with emptiness in your stomach.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.
The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner
I was eight
I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room
I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays
We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans
I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count
And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive
They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time
They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis, tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life
To that first enchilada.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
A blinding
Hopeless inclination towards a blending of nostalgia
And something just a twinge surreal.
Too enraptured, perhaps, or too locked inside the senses
The search takes me places, to small shards that I don't quite comprehend.
Still unsure why, if I can't, or I just don't want to.
It's old and familiar
Soaking in solitude, rife with memory.
Touched lightly by the hem of rose tint, blooming in the spreading flames.
As the old wooden paneling, tried as a tinderbox
Begins to peel away, affected by the heat.
A fire, awakening with the first rays of morning.
To warm up the little room, as the walls softly fall, turning to ashes.
Revealing the bare frame.
And the fauna outside begins to show itself
Sprinkled with dew, gently coaxing away the flames.
Rooted too close, it would seem
As they progress, slowly wither under ash
But for now, I still crawl through creation.
Hopeless, I'll never recapture...
Ignoring new context, engulfed in this fruitless rapture
With the past still dancing through my head.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
Too young for marriage
too old to stay with mom & dad.
But she hopped a bus following him West
and gave up all she had.
Skinny dipping in the salty sea
Infatuation in a rusty car
Plaid shirts and promises,
he was a thief that stole her heart
He gave her two babies
but she always felt alone,
between those wood paneling walls
his explosive temper was shown.
Beer bottles and ashtrays.
Tumbleweeds and sand.
Black, blue, and purple
painted by his hand.
So weak for so long,
she would cower in fear
Until she saw her children's faces,
filled with confusion and stained from tears
She left with just the clothes on her back
and two babies clinging to her hand
following the sunrise in the East
going home to mom & dad.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
15 years later, and we came back
the same creaking door announced our arrival
wood paneling and deer antlers seemed to remember us
the same way we started to remember them
six bunk beds and wooden shelves
where I used to put my radio and listen at night
the same key chains hanging from the light strings
we sat at the same wooden table
and put together that circular puzzle that has never left my mind
we went to the river and ran in bare feet
with the same fear of snakes as we did way back then
we sat 17 around the table and ate supper
and did the dishes with boiling water
we played Dutch blitz and card games
and always took someone else with us to the outhouse
we pumped that same water out of the same red pump
and the water had black flecks like it always used to
we all lined up and jumped off the rock in the same order as always
"my name is Bethany and I'm 22"
we hopped in the truck bed and went deer spotting at night
and remembered why we were scared of bears
and I remembered how much I miss being around my sisters
I slept on the top bunk with my sister
and she didn't stick her legs under my back like she always did
we climbed up to the fire tower
and rubbed leaves on our yellow jacket stings
I wish there was a natural remedy for nostalgia
when we left, they ran to the road to say goodbye
like they always did before
and my heart felt like some of it didn't leave with me
it took 15 years, but I came back
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 9:45 AM UTC
There is a tenant
that lives in my building
who pays no rent
This time of year
he spends his time
rolling his nuts into storage
behind the brown wood paneling
at the head of my bed
He scurries around his
furry little self, day and night
to ensure that
I get no rest
I asked the landlord
if this tenant pays rent
"How much do you get from him" I asked
"Can't get a nut out of him" the reply
"So why don't you evict him"
"Don't be stupid, I can't evict him"
"Why not?"
"Because you can't take a squirrel to court"
About a half an hour later
the landlord knocks on my door
Shows me a handful of acorns
then demands
"GET OUT"
I think HE's nuts
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Each pad sinks deeper into the soft
smushy, slush that was once hard like
Oak paneling in an old farm house.
The snow melts into calm reflecting pools
but constant spring is not a blessing
to the pink skin underpainting
of the great white bear.
He is not in a gold rush,
or a hurry, but he cannot swim forever.
The rising tides will bring the whales
closer, and only leave oil
and Caribou behind.
What shoes should you wear
when the ice goes renegade
and leaves you all but stranded
on a liquid isle?
Polar bears do not dock their boats
in Bernard Harbor,
so check your snow shoes
at the door and be prepared
for pirates. For when deer
jump eight feet into
pools, predators
should still know how to hunt.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
it's no good,
no good,
no good.
No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.
then kills.
It's no good.
No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.
No good.
Definitely not a monday morning thought:
A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
shit-smelling ****
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.
It's no good for that time.
It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.
Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.
When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.
You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.
Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.
you and her.
It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.
It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.
It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.
It's good for clarity,
it maintains.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
He lived in the perfect place
for a trailer park,
but his had the only wheels for miles. It
was a cemetery with just one
dead body,
a morgue with a single
black garbage bag.
We had a funeral for my hair
when he held
scissors to my skull, and swallowed my
motor cortex so I would never
run away – a promise
that he needed to check for silkworms
in case that is why my hair
stayed so soft.
My braids went into the plastic bag
and his tongue danced down my throat
daring me to move
saying he would love to
see me bend all my bones for him.
All his blankets were green
like the forest,
all his walls made of wood paneling –
me, the last young thing
and he buried me alive in his bad breath.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Spring sweeps over Canton
in slow moving waves of sun-
branches on the few carefully
planted trees begin to bud
beautiful white petals,
clean and spotless against
dirt tinted brick
and unwashed windows,
shedding blankets of soft
confetti on hybrid cars
and BMWs crowded into
spots on the street sides.
The warm weather brings bees,
mosquitoes, and morning joggers
who smile at each other as they pass,
their dogs running beside them.
They stop to smell
the patches of weeds that have
sneaked between cement panels
on the sidewalk, but are quickly
****** ahead as their owners’
heart rates begin to fall.
The jogging trail is tracked
in old houses ******
over like aging women.
They soak up the warmth
like a sponge, their seventy
year old walls continuing to peel
old asbestos speckled paint
beneath brand new wall paper
and paneling.
Bankers and law students,
doctors and nurses,
barflies and models
hunt them like injured
pray on a mountain top-
so few to feed on
that when one emerges,
hundreds dive for the ****
but only the ones with the
fattest wallets win,
and can sink their teeth into
the tender taste of
prime real estate,
a thin slice of Hip in
this burgeoning yuppie haven.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:39 AM UTC
The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Emotions are like a storm rolling in, I prefer my mood to be like happy weather
When I say happy weather I mean a beautiful sunny day
I look outside the glass window paneling and I see the birds chirping
And the trees lively and green
Not a cloud in sight but a lovely beam of sunlight piercing through the living room of this glorious light
I noticed one of my dogs as he lay, while the others frolic and play
And I enjoy the peace and quiet alone
I might want to enjoy this happy weather without a care
My heart is filled with this happy weather mood
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Painted in tempera on illustration board
Don't know things by heart
They will only break you
Use your mind instead
How as a teen I wanted to die
But could not remember why
And the junkieing of america
Crack baby penquins walking on thin ice
A child being beaten on a bus
The driver runs then, drives away, does nothing
How do you spell deedy
Painted in brown acrylic
over pencil on wood paneling
She's the queen of visa
Knows all the tricks with cards
She said " I like to swim in the rain"
Alligators laughing, like on that Sendak drawing
"Yea" I say "I like the art in" and it was still hot
Dogfights for doughnuts just to shake a stick
The most out of place person I ever met
Was that surfer dude in Michegan
And when I stopped the chair cough
Then maybe I did do the world a favor
And the judge said "Can you prove that
this woman ***** you when you were
a two year old?" And that is when
The tears began to fall down every cheek
of the jury.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
You don’t have to say anything,
we can lay on
thick blankets covered in
cigarette burns
and stare at
the paneling on the
sagging walls.
Kiss me
as the dust
collects on the picture
frames and
the wind carries away
the steady glances
we share.
You look beautiful
with
that cigarette
between your lips.
You look beautiful in
the color
red.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Grievous
I hold you as the chameleon with his spring-trigger bone
Holds his tongue
And I will catch you as a fist
I will lick the stench from your odor sacks
as a skunk
All those creepy little fragments
bugs in the system;glitched codes
they are shackled souls in a microsecond arc-length
of the universal
Prodding the dirt
and the worms
as stars
How about all the spice trees?
The many different species of food glitter
they make the buds sparkle, they are thinking of the taste
of umami, of sour, of patchwork gaze
the cooked vestibules of bone
the marrow, seeping into the stew
The pepper trees are smoked
equinoctial bonfires
You and I are yet to be cooked through
A taxi in the trader joes parking lot
Big repetitive 7's splattered across its paneling
I won't forget when i'm drunk or inebriated somehow
The tree in the center of town is lit up with LEDs
Branches curling like worms
You are Pharos, you are the great celestial beam
you are the crescent moon, thin as a sleeve
and the hot taste of batter on your breath
the way you let my Guinness cool off next to the space-heater
and give me yogurt from the local townsfolk
Everything is creamy, you said.
But i don't like to hear that
It's a steel rod into my brain, that.
I am a simple Vishnu Hare Brahma
I do not have any purpose but to be enlightened
and worshiped for my powerful odors
and a four-chambered bowel
that makes the turn easier for worms.
2
Pitiful
You are the hopeless pod
the many wildebeest, crossing their annuals
through twirling water-crocs,
Lion Prides
Leopards shifting within the brush
Bacterial infections from ***** tusks
Strange metal boxes
No 7's on this side
I want to blow the ******* skulls off of anything
that aims for you, sweet mare
45-70
Will literally send chunks of it into orbit
Lion or Turtle or window or Children
The most godly thing is a bullet
And the streams of blood that will seed a new ravine
and seep the next feed of riverrun
Will you be mine, then?
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:39 AM UTC
amber lips are
getting too red.
the cat's eyes are
getting too cloudy.
the scratches
in the wood paneling
are getting too deep
& the church bell
that you can hear
from the mountains
is getting too loud.
the stack of pillows on
my desk chair is
about to fall over,
& the neighbors
are getting too high.
the molding
is getting too cracked.
the paint is
getting too faded
& my screams
are getting too quiet.
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
sticky cold sweat
coats hairy back skin
as the garage sale fan blows –
droplets of water continuously collect
in the corner of agonizing eyes
while the relentless ticking
of the wall clock
beats rhythmically –
press board paneling bows
under duress from years of nail pounding
and decorative wall hangings –
flickering fluorescents
hidden behind translucent ridged plastic
sends mutated shadows
dancing across dust-covered paperwork –
squeaking roller chair
with one stuck wheel
scoots every inch of the five feet
linoleum flooring, off-white marble
as I desperately search
for form 35-wr121 –
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
i found out
another friend is
Sad
with a capital 's', with capital weight
heaviness, of a bomb dropped
into glowing memoriam
sorrys and thanks, in equal measures
the world is
a little off kilter, a little
straighter
now
the sky still disassociates with the earth, in the morning
a membrane of white
stitched by avian sillouettes
awhiles whittling into brittle tones
paneling the arching of our spines
and
the italicized whir points out the
jagged smoothness
of sighs
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
(News, May 2015: Every new home in France must grow food or have solar paneling)
Maupassant and Baudelaire
Say stick it up your derriere
You countries that just won't care
'Cos energy is free as free as thought
In, out, sunshine caught
So take your sticky carbon crap
Your shale, oil, and your frack
And leave them in the ground below
For we are here: the undertow
And we will grow.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
I waited for you
by the lake where you used to go
when it would snow
Autumn leaves falling on the old house
with wood paneling and empty windows
no one bothered to go there anymore
and neither did you
I chased you down the hall
the one I grew up in with the door on it
you are quicker-footed than me now
who am I kidding
you always were
and got away
I followed you through
crowds of people stood and stared
like I was naked; but not you
you were the only one who kept going
and my legs were too heavy
I hid and tried to catch you
but the moon kept getting bigger
you stopped and watched with me
cold disembodied emotion melting
that was vaguely fear and awe
but maybe something else
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Now fascinated.
This isn't really a marooned-casual, one man island, bro I'm doing fine kind of thing. (Sounds like a job, not like ~art. I tell myself stuff as if it matters.)
I chose this lonely house with the rotting fascia. I send my boyfriend information about cryopreservation, hoping to one day hoard his savagery in a deepfreezer emblazoned with scenes from the trail of tears,
so don't get me started on dysfunction. Sort of fascinated with the itsy bitsy spider, with the painted rectangle, with the street walkers and their cellulite visible from the turning lane. My ***** bullet braining radio waves and squeaking a little - it
isn't like it's warm until you step into someone's house, the carpet orange and paneling boxing up misfortune -
it's cold,
it's raining forty nine degrees of october.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
A home that I saw
It was in a neighborhood that I had to explore
I certainly couldn’t ignore
The best way to describe
The wood paneling was magnified
It was a two family house
There was plenty of room even for a mouse
The antic had to room to store
This I know for sure
The house stood out on the block
The doors were sturdy with a strong lock
There was even a long backyard
There was space to move backward and forward
The fireplace was something to see
I like the house, but this is between you and me
My dream house in my mind
It has every combined
That is my house story, and I am smiling in my glory.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
my mind breathes color
painting memories with
faces in rich oils
light watercolor
water rarely dirties
you are a strong forest green
welcoming, rooted, sensible, honest
he is a gentle sea blue
jovial, calm, deep, understanding
my dear friend, carrying a foreign name, royal purple
the boy I used to fancy, burnt orange
the other boy, rich teal, when he returns my smiles
cinnamon, pearls, dusty blue
my father is honey-stained oak paneling
my mother is garnet fabrics
my brother is a vivid red
the woman behind the coffee counter this morning, sweet canary yellow
the man jogging past my house this afternoon, the color of granola and sand
and me. i.
the world is a kaleidoscope
i have always been grey
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Blackberry wine and pecan biscuits ,
Crackling fires , knee high stockings , electric blankets ..
Communion with my evening star , storybooks luminesce
in a cold black venue , a hickory fire pops , vibrations travel the wood floors ..
Our reflections grace Pine paneling , elder hearts aglow on brisk , frosty , quiet nights .. Together ..
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC