"playhouse" poems
this table in the
shade
these commune hippies
in the river
I wrote a poem
in my sleep
I looked at the mountains
and thought
rain
staccato
metronome
irrigation
and caps
melting
but enough of this
nature
let’s go back
to the concrete
mouth
where we walk
through the city
full of cake
bloated like
balloons
but rolling
because
cake doesn’t make
you float
no
cake only makes you
fat
the conversation turns
to the stench
there’s something dying
in the air
we leave
and roll joints
spot magnums
on tree branches
and think
only monkeys ****
in trees
and we would never
want to see
monkey ***
and ******
no
we’d never try it
and the homeless man next to us
puts his spoon
away
but god
why do we sleep
when we just wake up?
why do we sleep
to dream
such ********
things
where celebrities
feed us salami in
back alleyways
and we see our mother
pooping on
world maps?
time rips of
lyrical grass
conductive smile
soap bubbles
these beautiful
dreamtime mornings
spent thinking of you
in playhouse mountains
like a child
you smile
like a friend
I offer you my hand
and we walk
to the white
together
bill withers is there
he is singing
in his yellow
turtleneck
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
About me young careless feet
Linger along the garish street;
Above, a hundred shouting signs
Shed down their bright fantastic glow
Upon the merry crowd and lines
Of moving carriages below.
Oh wonderful is Broadway -- only
My heart, my heart is lonely.
Desire naked, linked with Passion,
Goes trutting by in brazen fashion;
From playhouse, cabaret and inn
The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze
All gay without, all glad within;
As in a dream I stand and gaze
At Broadway, shining Broadway -- only
My heart, my heart is lonely.
3.7k
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
The sun is a dancer and I'm the stage
I'd forgotten how good it feels to let the sun kiss my skin
Butterfly rays fluttering around me
My entire body
Being dead isn't so bad now that I feel good
Twinkling eyes are mine because its so bright
I'm in love with the warmth of the substance around me
It feels like water and sand mixed up into grass
I'm buried in the land by the beaches
Married to the heat energy
I can see it now dancing across my glass body
Since I'm no longer real I'd like to believe I'm a doll
And the dirt is my playhouse
Everyone said it was gonna be cold like the snow where we made angels but I'm not so sure angels are supposed to be frozen
I'd like to say goodnight because I could fall asleep in the comfort of the sun but I guess I'll say good morning instead
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
Reality is the stage upon which I play the fool & lover.
Delusion is the Act, not knowing one from the other.
The Past, a script,
Memorized to poison the mind.
Hope, a costume,
Worn to keep the heart blind.
Falling into bed,
the curtain raises from the ground.
Quiet whispers in my ear,
house music thrashes loud!
I Perform with passion,
putting faith in my troupe.
Convincing the audience
My story is true.
Scene to scene,
They see no flaw.
Each song & dance
Inspires awe.
In the end my cheeks, they shine,
like all the roses that will fall.
My eyes stay glamoured
with the curtain call.
The lights come up,
The morning sun,
They cheer, they kiss.
But the show is done,
they have had their fun.
It was pleasure, it was bliss.
Take a bow.
I played the Lover for a night.
I am the Fool now.
Exit stage right.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
In the window of the pet shop
four small faces, lost.
Their owners, sick with worry,
want them found at any cost.
A quad of treasured family pets
roaming wild and free,
unmindful of the panic
they’re causing back in Leigh.
A sausage dog called Mini,
sleek and burnished dark.
She’s likely got a little voice
that is more squeak than bark.
Tinks: a sturdy Staffie,
with a plea on Facebook
praying for his safe return
his people beg you “have a look”
“in your sheds and garages,
or in the kids' playhouse.
You never know who could be there
‘cos he’s quiet as a mouse”.
A grumpy Border Terrier,
Underbitten, rough of coat
“Bill: a much loved dog, we miss him”
in shaky letters wrote.
And, last of all, would you believe
Someone’s lost their tortoise!
He’s been in the family since ‘77
(let’s hope he isn’t corpus).
For pets are no mere mortals,
nor fallible as we.
They’re up there on a pedestal,
in anthropomorphic fantasy.
Then one day they disappear,
our soppy hearts turn wretched.
No stick to throw, and if we did
none to go and fetch it.
On centre stage of family life
entangled in our tribe.
No separateness of species,
always by our side.
So if you’re there, or round about
And you should chance to see
Mini, Tinks or Billy
or a tortoise in his mid-thirties.
Tell the little pet shop -
it’s better late than never -
to mend an aching, wretched heart
who thought their best friend gone forever.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Because you pretended
to like my playhouse.
I tried to lock you in
but my three year old body
could not brace
you back enough
to make you stay.
Because you kept secrets
in your suitcase
during work trips.
And I wanted to know
what you kept in there.
So I listened
behind closed doors.
I would graze my hands
over your face;
prickly and the color
of pumpkins.
And I longed for you
to stay home this time.
Why would you need
to go to work
when it rained?
Because you took the chair
we used to sit on
when we played
with cow puppets.
I still have one.
Because you were my dad,
and I was your first child.
You showed up late
to your mother's funeral.
All because my stepmother
was too busy
mourning the loss
of her iced coffee.
That's not the father
that I used to try and lock
in my playhouse.
Because you never
called me back
when i apologized
for asking too much.
Because you
left
lied
cheated
manipulated
and lost your daughter.
But still
I can't
bring myself
to say
it was your fault.
Maybe it was your brain tumor
slowly ******* away
at your morality.
Maybe it was my
inability to cope
with catastrophe
as a child.
Maybe it
was too much
to be caught
in a place
you never wanted to be in.
Or maybe it's just life.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
I was a touch-me-not before you broke my heart
living in a child’s playhouse
now I say, “touch me please”
it is the demons that make angels exist
some girls say that sadness makes you feel dead
you made me become alive
you cried when my hair covered my eyes
so my sadness carried it away, it
uncoiled
a heartbeat per ounce I love your ****
but still we have conversations about where you
want to be buried
when you die.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
To the Williamson Brothers
High noon. White sun flashes on the Michigan Avenue
asphalt. Drum of hoofs and whirr of motors.
Women trapsing along in flimsy clothes catching
play of sun-fire to their skin and eyes.
Inside the playhouse are movies from under the sea.
From the heat of pavements and the dust of sidewalks,
passers-by go in a breath to be witnesses of
large cool sponges, large cool fishes, large cool valleys
and ridges of coral spread silent in the soak of
the ocean floor thousands of years.
A naked swimmer dives. A knife in his right hand
shoots a streak at the throat of a shark. The tail
of the shark lashes. One swing would **** the swimmer...
Soon the knife goes into the soft under-
neck of the veering fish... Its mouthful of teeth,
each tooth a dagger itself, set row on row, glistens
when the shuddering, yawning cadaver is hauled up
by the brothers of the swimmer.
Outside in the street is the murmur and singing of life
in the sun--horses, motors, women trapsing along
in flimsy clothes, play of sun-fire in their blood.
1.9k
child
and there in his hand
balloon of bright colors
not even rain will damp that smile
come on shine like a child's mind
all that darkness you feel is just state of mind
if anyone can smile in the rain you can
he is as free as happiness could be
in the living breathing dream of his balloon
no lonely dreamers in a child's eyes
all just strange wonderful stories in the
wondrous playhouse we call a world
come on shine like a child's mind
our toys will all too soon fade away
let us rejoice in our laughter
rejoice in eachothers dream
child at heart is who i am
lets go find you a balloon
so you can shine like a child's mind
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
I act
So I can release my pain
Without anyone knowing its mine
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
_For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.
An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.
Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.
My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.
I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.
The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.
In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.
Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.
For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.
But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.
For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage._
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
ashes fell like snow
drifting down aimlessly
silently one landed in her hair
but her eyes were fixed on the fire
a great rushing crackling tortured sound
as the building burned
we could only stand and watch
can still feel its heat on my face
years pass
with the seasons laying a great drift
of leaves and tangle of vines on the ruins
sticking up out of the rough sea of dead debris
the twisted remains of a child's school desk
the frame of it jutting out of the snow
melting in the spring breeze
a muted shout of metal
the jungle gym overtaken by weeds
and the swings just a rusted frame
i clamber up the top to see the vista
but only gain another perplexing view of ashen earth
we walk down the broken path
to the small house
its broken window a haven for a thrush
and nestled in its brick doorway
a rusty clowns head
battered and leaning over
the grin lost in reddish decay
we sit in the room we love
in the small broken house
really no more than a child's playhouse
while the summer air gathers in close to us
thick and filled with heavy summer scents
the sun piercing the room like a hot razorblade
she wont look at me
only sits mumbling a song unrecognized
till the words slip clear of old nursery rhyme
i fear for her fragile sanity's
she unbuttons her shirt
sweat pours from her like spring rain
she finally looks at me
and with a vacant diabolical tone
tells me she wants to hurt me in ways
no-one else can
unhinged
as dusk litters the field
we come to stand where we stood that night
come to relive once more our thoughts
and words
as we watched it burn
symbolically i place a small grey paper in her hair
for the ashes that fell like tears
symbolically she raises a single forlorn cry
asking that i save someone
but there is no one to be saved
we are a lifetime too late
symbolically we weep
the twisted iron
in the rubble rebuffs our desire for comfort
the leaden sky
denies our desire to close this terrible thing
leave it behind
as nights restless hand pushes us
back to the small house
she takes my hand
silently forgiving us both
for having only been children
when our world burned to the ground
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
In my pocket
Old and wore out
A symbol of every color I felt
This old paint brush
Has seen miracles
Made many more
Revived old houses
Brought life to a dying kids eyes
As she watched her playhouse
Become healthier then her
This old paint brush
Painted a future for me
In every smile of every homeowner
Brought beauty where darkness resided
Yet I never tried to let it
Bring colors into my heart
Bristles are missing
Brass is dented and caked over
Handle barely holding on
But its my brush
My favorite brush
The only brush I'll ever use
Because its the brush
That painted more miracles
Then Jesus performed
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Magic Marker Mistakes.
Hop-Scotch Hurts.
Tick-Tack-Toe Troubles.
In the world of the shrewd there was the land of innocence.
Candy Heart Cares.
Playhouse Problems.
Silly String Scars
But the young grow and the innocence dies.
What we had was just a chalk outline of love that washed away with the rain.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 2:41 AM UTC
i hear the voice in whispers...
whispers...whispers...
under the willow tree
the voice says nasty things
***** words
to keep me listening
i hear it by the river
over rock and into splash
slash your wrists, sister
they'll never take you back
i run to my old playhouse
under the old oak floor
the whispers turn to hisses
i can bare it no more
i take the razor and cut so deep
the blood is black and sprays
now maybe at last
the whispers will go away
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 2:40 PM UTC
What is life?
What is death?
What is waste?
What is purpose?
What is good?
What is evil?
What is?
All different, yet all one.
Nihilistic ambiguity,
What is?
If you have thought the thoughts,
You might be like me- trapped.
What is?
Is our purpose to be successful?
To leave something behind?
To be remembered?
To be a conqueror and a Man of Free Will?
Or are we just a doll of rag in Fate's playhouse?
What is life without death?
What is good without evil?
What is pleasure without suffering?
Are they not equals?
Such is life in her horrific beauty,
Deceptively, yet excitingly... ambiguous.
What is Churchill without ******
What is Richard without Saladin?
What is humanitarianism without dehumanization?
Are they not both equally powerful?
However, are they also not both one?
What is the difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter?
One is someone who wrecks havoc for something that you do not believe in,
While the other is someone who wrecks havoc for something that you do believe in.
Wait...
What is justice and what is tyranny?
What is moral and what is immoral?
Well...
The true question is, to whom is it a moral law and to whom is it an immoral law?
That is when you realize, that everything is one.
Truths become lies,
Lies become truths,
Good become evil,
Evil become good,
Hate become love,
Love become hate,
Justice become unjust,
Injustice become just.
Meaningful becomes meaningless,
As a couple's carnation is destined to wither and turn to dust.
Yet, in it's beauty, both sarcastic and cruel,
The meaningless becomes meaningful.
Being trapped sets you free.
And that is when you realize,
Life is not about being told what is right or wrong.
Life is not about leading the way,
Nor is it about following a person.
It is not about following a code,
A tradition, or a set path.
What is, becomes up to you.
What you believe in,
What is just,
What is moral,
Is something only you can tell yourself.
You may learn from others.
However, nobody reads the same sentence the same way.
And even on the same roads nobody has the same journey.
There is no purpose to anything,
There is no good,
There is no free will,
There is no fate,
There is no truth,
Nor is there a lie.
Everything is meaningless...
All meaningless... until, you breathe meaning into them.
In a way, you are just a passing moment in this Universe.
A tock on a ticking clock.
A small ant in the cosmic world.
A weakling whose death day is already marked on the calender.
Yet, until that moment, and until that day comes.
Without you, the Universe has no meaning.
Without you, there are no truths, no morals, no goals, and no purpose.
For you breathe purpose into this world,
As you write your infinite story into this leather bound diary of life.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
I built the playhouse
To withstand
The seige of time.
Like Hadrian,
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Crescent moons
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Memorial Walls.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Princess Lollypoppy got her wings today,
It helped her fly far far away,
She thought if she left, she would be missed
But in fact she missed home after she twisted her wrist
Flying was not so fun as she once thought
She wandered the skies and found a rainbow sprout
It was beautiful, it was really amazing
But she missed home and it was agonizing
Gathering courage and embracing guilt
She flew back home and slowly rebuilt
Her little playhouse with tables and chairs
So that Prince Lollypoopsie could also share her wares
It was no so bad, she found after all
Two years have passed, and though it wasn't a ball
She did have a playmate and he was quite a sport
When she needed a punching bag, he was always there to support!
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
The first day
God came face to face
Spring, in front of the tree
That had forgotten roots and leaves
The slender note of complaint
Made to its friends
By the cloud that got lost
The goddess’ voice
Unheard by any but water
The flower garden
In front of which
Grass grows with abandon
The darkened house
With cowdung – smeared floor
A cluster of moments
Of butterflies cavorting in the rain
The playhouse
Made of the wings of fireflies and moths
The seaside
Where camels enjoy the breeze
The forgotten oyster
The fry left
Under the sand
The praying hands
Of date palms
Which look upon earth from above
The wedding night
Inside the elephant shelter
Where ants frolic
A pinch of beaten rice,
Cooked, using only the twigs the pigeons bring
The anthology of words
Read and re-read
In a hand-written letter
The translation of the moment
God couldn’t quite get
what could it have been?
Covered daughter with kisses..
She wept, alarmed
I heard the voice of God telling daughter,
” I didn’t understand anything either!”
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
a hand
a hello
an embrace
What flesh do you hold
Who does it belong
to
i feel as a doll
in its playhouse
Trudging between plastic
bright, wallpaper rooms
Daises and lavish paisley
peeling
Will I ever trust the very heart
on my sleeve
let alone place it
in your hands
Meaning is like words
It is claimed, they are said
Truth remains elusive
from reality
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
This isn't home to us, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to play in,
eat in, sleep in.
And when it rains, it doesn't pour;
it is but ever dry.
When it's dry, all I do is die.
I die. I die. I die.
Only to live tomorrow and yet again
play, eat and sleep.
This isn't love, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to pour in, die in
and live in again.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:21 AM UTC