"playroom" poems
Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
6.2k
Wrap your legs around me tonight,
he begs
Whisper to me through the web
His voice huskily beseeches
His eyes breathe pillowtalk whisper
fingertips feel a little bit crisper.
Which web, she murmers hungrily
The heat builds between them
as if there is even an in- between.
The cobwebs on my heart.
He groans and shifts and aches
for her sword of velvet to stab through
his doors of steel
Im a slave to you, you’re my heroine
i’ll shoot you up my arm
help me to feel free.
This I can do , her body replies
and its a kaleidoscope of de ja vu and fresh experience
An ocean view of Woman,
and masculine musk
A grave of endless ******
a playroom of opportunity Soon they can’t drown
they will drag against gravity and greet the sun but for now
it is all they can do to stay
afloat
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
I cuddled upon it since birth,
It was the friend that kept me
Calm,
Peaceful,
Friend
Of my sleepy times, always there,
But I awoke and Blanky wasn't there
"MUMMY"
"DADDY"
As both ran in,
"What is it our little one"
Tears streaming, words jumbled in emotions
Mummy stroked my hair
Daddy Sshhh....
Sshhh...
Sshhh...
Sshhh...
And all was calm in the world,
B, B, "Blanky"
Has gone away,
Mummy soft spoken voice speaks
"Lets check your bed"
No not there?
***** trained detective looks around"**
Sniffs the air,
Sorry mummy that was me,
Mmm... to the playroom
High, Low
Here, there
Places searched but no where found,
His thoughts of blanky and sweet sleep,
As he searches each room, doggy sniffs
Come on Hairy,
He checks his bed nothing but hair,
His baby mind thinks back to the other day
Blanky and me,
Me and Blanky,
To the garden Woof, little fingers can not reach
Woofs hind legs stretch up,
"Good boy Woof"
As the door opens to
The great outside,
Near the sandpit
"No"
Near the grass
"Neither"
Then he spots it
Then its seen,
"Blanky I have missed you"
Hanging just out of reach,
"Detective work is never as easy as it seems"
A baby has skills, as he takes his *****
Sticky patches take hold and on top
Of a head, smelling fresh,
Not that just thumb ****** sleepy smell
But we can change that,
Blanky wrapped around
***** dragging behind, a new one needed I think,
"Mummy"
"Daddy"
"Its solved"
The missing blanky case is solved
It was washed, ***** it was once,
But so soft and cuddly once more,
It needs that just slept smell,
A detective is off to get snuggles sleep
Till the next case awaits, till I awaken
Its sheep time for me, goodnight or day everyone sweet dreams.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
the best version of myself exists in clearance-nike-outlet-wear
pulling up hair made blonde by the sunshine
bending over tanned and strong legs
tying shoelaces
and laughing musical notes
willingly escaping genuine smiles
my tummy is strong then, but with soft edges
i'm proud because it's held my body together all these years
i'm proud because it will carry a mini human
someday
inside my head there are coloring books
sprawled across a playroom factory
and all the gears are turning and i'm functioning
i'm breathing
my heart is beating
and i'm not scared of eating girl scout cookies when i'm with my girls in clearance-nike-outlet-wear
i'm not scared to let laughs float to the surface
or hiccups
i'm not scared of anything at all
we're real together
and we have freckly runner legs
that love splashing in the puddles our tears make
we're not always gonna be together
we are always gonna be real
together
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,
Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,
Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,
Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,
As they ran to their shelter,
And the cows mooed on the fields above,
And the goats cried in the barn.
Mother pumped water from the well,
We ran around collecting eggs,
Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.
In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,
The fire roared in the range,
Granddad sat in his big chair,
He burned anything just to keep warm,
We thought it very strange.
Mother worked at the big white sink,
Knitted squares hung from a line,
We made tiny plasticine dolls,
They slept in plasticine beds,
We drank Dandelion and Burdock,
Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,
It came in enormous stone bottles,
Dad got it every week from a man at the door.
Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,
A room we called the playroom,
Was carpeted with goat skins,
There were jars of melted metal,
Who knows why?
We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,
Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,
In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,
We loved to look inside.
The bathroom was a scary place,
There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,
At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,
We cuddled together to keep warm,
One night we saw fairies at the window.
Our aunty had a gramophone,
Records all scattered around,
We had to be careful where we trod,
She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,
We didn’t understand.
Our uncle slept on the top floor,
In a huge brass bed,
One day I took him a cup of tea,
We were not normally allowed up there,
He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.
He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.
My grandmother slept downstairs,
She always was very ill,
Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,
We got her water from the spring,
To cure her, but she died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
before~after / conception~completion (my coordinates)
<•>
for the caretakers of the next generation
<•>
comes the everyday, the mundane,
the profane, meeting at
the X,Y ordinates of
ordinary sweat and struggling tears
oh! this stuff of life,
makes me groan and wonder out load,
what is the purpose beyond the
existence of being a
constantly in need of maintenance,
sustenance machine
then I hear but do not see
the hallway pitter patter,
the thrumming of purposed
direction certain,
four little feet
who between them don't posses
even a decade yet
on their way to the
sunroom, now renamed,
the playroom,
expropriated by their toys of eminent domain,
on their way to the life between the
before~after / conception~completion
and this point,
of a single moment,
an invisible sound,
of this particular life,
this extraordinary ordinate,
this X,Y locus,
this precision perceived location of something real,
it is a realized abstraction,
the exact point,
where my coordinates are
harmonized
9/2/17
5:11am
SI
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
**I exist to resist all your heavy-headed hits. Your words in stone, more absolute than death.
The way you glance below your jagged bridge, a grin dried in arrogance.
Your footsteps frighten the earth, but cease to shake my defiance.
Gravels cave, underfires exposed.
But even then I'll swim, in your ocean of shallowness, tigers on my tail,
Paradise Mirages mocking my waterless skin, even then, I said, I will swim to the Revolution's Shore.
Nevermind your ignorance, seeing blue skies and arguing them RED.
Deluded certainty, swearing on a man's soul to prove your point and feed your obsession.
I say "yes", you say "of course",
but no doubt I'm in the wrong.
I say "maybe" you say "perhaps,
and so you've proved your wisdom blind.
Mastered conspiracies, you've convinced your lies true.
In your mind you walk on water, as you strike your soles on mere tar.
Governor's Confetti lay dead on Governor's Ground;
fool's bravery in act, leading souldiers from behind.
This world,
The Principal's Playroom: clay towers and cars, play moneys and guards.
In the sun, your tin castles smile and glimmer in the shine.
But inside, hollowness reigns and you fail to see.
Eyes and Eyes fall to your sleep,
calamity by the masses as you care not to care.
Seconds linger as misted windshields shield the drunk driver,
and not even the death he brings can break the glass.
Deaf man with hearing ears,
the blind one who can see.**
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
I only think of you when I want something
and that something is simple, yet it haunts me sometimes
It keeps me up at night.
Barely I sleep as I ride
-it out. Flows through me like a drug
I can never get enough
Addicted to the scent that stirs from within
A special sin.
They have special place in hell for me
A special sin.
I can see my chambers calling me.
The yearning is inhuman and the lust eats me up inside
that's why I text you random things at night.
Hoping it'll subside.
never does. why do i try?
Twist and turning in the sheets trying not to remember the last time
-you put your hand on my thigh.
Set me off , all the time.
It happens in the earliest hours of the night,
Like a vampire I seek shelter at my home, trying to hide
it's the lust demon, and she's here with her nightly visits
implanting images that drag me to the abyss with a vengeance
There's my body.
moving to it's accord, snaking in the sheets.
twisting and turning with an urgency
There's my fingers slowly co-ercing me
Coaxing me into my toxic temptation of a urgency
darkness being the audience that blankets me
in my fantasy playroom.
Slip the finger to my mouth
to taste the fantasy ***
Half drunken off the playing of my own drums
Sounding off like a snare-drum
with the side of vocals
it's like a live concert as I hit I higher of notes
La-La- Oh- La
-and that is all that she wrote.
Turning over to my phone
how i want you to know
I grab it staring at your pictures as I plateau.
From the head to toe-
crescendos.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Tonight, months later, I lay here accompanied with only
The leisurely winds teaching my cigarette smoke to dance
And a rage as present as the hole your father put into your playroom wall when you were five.
Did you mean a word of it?
The night we spent together on a stranger's front porch
Because their car wasn't in the driveway
It was you, me, and that bottle of whiskey you'd stolen from your mother's liquor cabinet.
You were tracing the lines of my palms
Whispering promises into them
Until intoxication brought us slurred words and sleepy eyes.
Since that night I've wondered if mountains would choke
On the echoes of me screaming your mangled promises into them or
If the trees would suddenly blush in shades of gold and red; a temporary Autumn.
I never knew how it felt to drown until you left me choking on the sound of your name.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Still lanky dude with the long hair
Still can't tell you when, but I'm getting there.
Still the best poet you ever read.
Still don't think you'll read it till I'm dead.
Still gassing up past 3 AM
Still saying "Won't fall in love again."
Still waking up from the same dreams
Still getting air when I try and scream
Still wanna **** up a KMart
Still wanna skip to the next part
Still got a problem with some folks
Still tryna swallow and just choke
Still poor, still ***** and still tired
Still last resort if you need a ride
Still driving off of the Hairpin
Still hope the car lands in heaven
Still the one that loved you despite all of the pain
Still pulling the heart together, next is still the brain
Still the beating of it, stop it dead, leave it there to rot
Still wonder if you ever gave it a second thought
Still fighting toys in the playroom
Still saying "we're gonna move soon"
Still getting kicked out in August.
"Still this isn't breaking my promise."
Still smoking out in the same seats
Still hiding under the bedsheets
Still hit a home run in most cases
Still gotta touch all four bases
Still don't have the words for this feeling
Still tryna peel me off of the ceiling
Still chew my teeth instead of food
Still try to learn like I'm in school
Still hate the face in the mirror
Still my vision only gets clearer.
Still wanna ruin a Wal-Mart.
Still gonna race with the shopping carts.
Still scaling the shelving in home decor
Still can't go back, still banned from the store
Still gassing up past 4 AM
Still city streets, devoid of men
Still have to make wrong a few rights
Still, like a deer in headlights.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Part I – 10039 330th Street West
I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
Creaking staircase,
Crumbling basement walls,
Dark side door,
Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.
When I lived in the haunted house
I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school.
I hated my room,
I hated the dining room,
I hated the basement.
I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.
Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Growling at night from the dining room,
Singing in the morning from the basement,
Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom.
Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.
I know that the house was haunted
Because someone was always with me when these things happened.
My stepbrother who also heard the growling,
My stepsister who also heard the singing,
And all of us who heard the tapping.
I know that these happened
Because the house was haunted.
Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue
I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
My bad report cards in the recycling,
The constant panic in my stomach,
Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor,
My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away.
When I lived in the haunted house
I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college.
I hated the living room,
I hated the kitchen,
I hated the hallway.
Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.
Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch,
Screaming outside during the day from the yard,
Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere.
I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.
I can’t know that the house was haunted
Because nobody was with me when these things happened.
I was alone with the whistling,
I was alone with the screaming,
I was alone with the whispering.
I can’t know these happened
Because it’s my head that’s haunted.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
there seems to be a lover missing
in this exotic playroom i incorporate
all the players seemed paired off
but me
i search the inventory
but can't seem to find a match
there's big ones
small ones
short ones
tall ones
smart ones
dumb ones
sarcastic ones
and lame ones
but where is mine?
of all there is to offer
not one suits me
so i guess i will continue
alone in this plight
for there's not a hopeful potential
in this land
of lovers delight.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Harpies-folly-playroom-mess
No good mischief in youthful crazy eyes
Alas, remembering our days gone-by
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
I am from my family,
From the tree that I half-know,
From the half that I don’t know,
From the substitute half given,
To give me room to grow,
To at least semi-know,
What its like,
To know the whole tree,
I am from the friends I didn’t have,
And the friends I have now,
I am from the struggles of life,
And the disability’s,
That made it thrice as hard,
I am from the gifts,
Three of them all in a row,
That gives me eyes to see,
What others don’t want to know,
That gives me a heart wide open,
To help me give so much,
And hurt even more,
At the words thrown at me,
That gives me ears to hear,
What others never will,
That gives me hands to touch,
What others cast away,
That gives me feet to walk,
A path that others daren’t think to,
That gives me a mind to part,
The fog of misconception,
That gives me wild paths with a hundred choices each,
And a mind that likes them all,
I am from the uncertainty of what I shall do,
When the high school path ends,
And the college path begins,
I am from the times,
Of soccer ***** and dads’
I am from the middle house,
With a red door and a porch,
With a crab-apple tree,
With a Toyota Celica and a Toyota Camry,
And web-collecting Moses bushes,
With beige walls,
With a closet to the right and a bathroom straight ahead in the foyer,
With a red couch and a cabinet framed TV,
With a mirror on the wall and shelves up above,
With a once-white carpet and a computer,
With a book shelve set into the wall and an old broken inherited radio,
With hardwood floors in the kitchen-dining room and an old wobbly wooden dining table,
With a counter of doom and a pantry,
With white carpeted stars that lead up to the rooms and down to the family room-basement, bathroom, office, and laundry room,
With the master bedroom and after nightmare cuddle sessions,
With my old room, now my brothers, with yellow walls and a castle mural painted by my Mom,
With my playroom, then nursery, then my room again, with blue walls and clouds on one side over white wooden borders,
With door less closet and Joes’ old bed,
With a pink cubby-bookshelf and old wooden dresser,
And stained floors.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
I smell a hint of green
or a shade of blue
while sitting on the tree
full of branches and
branches and branches,
almost touching the sky
slipping my tongue on the
sight of the moon and
watching it from the corset
of the 30- storied building,
walking down the crevices of
personification and ideas,
thawing it with bittersweet nails
when suddenly, a tint of yellow
sparks sends shivers down my
spine but later washes away
like scenic scents of the mist,
and I am still standing,
lurking past the walls of
ignorance with the rich oxygen
atoms laid on my arms,
my lungs are pumping out
all the energy which just
puts a full stop across the shade
I know it’s a thickhead but I
let it slip away minding the gap,
and the sweet kid with his smile
puts the finger against the pad,
jotting down the hues.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
It always comes back
to sleepless dark mornings,
waking long before
sleep is through,
clutching at seconds
until I have to leave.
What should have been
will never be,
banished to the south wing
of the dungeon.
Such a refined cruelty
to chain my memory
one chamber over
from your playroom,
where you give and take
your pleasures...
which many years ago
too briefly
were mine alone.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
*He always loved
his toy train set.
we made stations
and little trees
into a forest to
sit by his track
as the toy train
trundled along.
I made him a
station masters uniform
he would not take it off
all of the day.
It is not fair he got so sick.
I prayed for god
to take me instead
and leave him alone,
God answered my prayer
but said no.
I guess he was lonely
in heaven and needed
a little boy to play
trains with him.
I have not moved his train-set
from his playroom.
I will in a while,
but not yet,
not just yet.
sometimes in my sleep
he is paying me a visit.
I kiss him and do not
let him see
I have been crying.
I smile and say
what shall we do today honey.
he whispers back
lets play trains mommy.*
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
Little toy trains
*He loved the toy train set
More than Lego or anything else.
I would say what shall we do today sweetie?
He would shout
let's play trains Mommy.
I made him a station and trees and tunnels.
Put sheep and cows watching the train go by.
The train set took over the playroom floor.
For his birthday I bought him a conductors
Uniform he would not take it off.
When the sickness came
I prayed to God to take me instead.
And leave my little boy here..
He answered my prayers
But he said No.
I guess that he needed a little
Boy in heaven to play trains with.
Now sometimes when I am dreaming
I see him again in the mist of dreamland.
He always is wearing his conductor's uniform.
I say Hi honey what shall we do today.
He whispers quietly
let's play trains Mommy.*
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
remnants of a star
bits and pieces strewn about
death like a child’s playroom
littered without consequence
abandoned kaleidoscope
mirror fragments
blood splatter prism
heaven smeared like paint or jelly
the color violet for breakfast
bright red lip curled
crumbs of the bluest Indian summer
trapped in this grin of fire
pink gums and overturned snow globe
the body of confidence lost to the floorboards
glitter impossible to sweep up
even more disgusting to hold
shining universe adhered unwillingly
trapped between sticky fingers
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 5:36 PM UTC
She is beautiful
Her husband is a great guy.
She has his children
They look so much like him.
I have this tiny space
of time with her.
A few laps of the pool.
She is not mine
And never will be.
Her warmth
is still in my bed.
Her smile still
glowing in my heart.
But I am a thief
I have stolen her
Even for a few hours .
My heart is a playroom
full of false promises.
Of lies that even
I cannot believe.
When she leaves
I will catch
the silence of my room.
And write a love poem
That I can never give to her.
I shall not grieve her loss
Even with the invisible dagger
that is plunged in my chest.
Because she never really
was to be mine
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
walking a tight rope going insane
losing my grip swallowed by pain
silently screaming he walks in my view
forlorn all hope energy echoes ensue
through my gloom a speck of light
glimmer of hope quickly covered by night
drowning in a black sea of wistful despair
shattered defeated beyond all repair
no way of escaping this hellish realm
constrained locked in chains forever bound
catatonic paralyzed numb disconnected
absorbed delusions hallucinations protected
alone and abandoned a comfortable place
woefully wounded distrusting disgraced
angel of darkness his playroom is you
trapped and enslaved, his joker the devils fool
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC