"roomy" poems
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.
The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.
The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.
The pain
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.
There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.
I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.
So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.
No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.
Paul Butters
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
As the last waltz playing in my jacket ceased,
Loneliness and longing spilled out,
Along with a few coins and a recorder
From my roomy coat pockets.
The phone booth stood there,
Frosted by icicles of promises
Never thawed to life,
Yet a haven from my impasse;
A womb for the stranded & unwanted.
I closed the door behind me,
And fed the phone a few coins,
Punched your number with numb fingers
And fogged up the insides of the glass,
As I waited to hear your voice.
“Hello?” You said, but where were my words?
I must have lost them on my way,
I must have fed them to the phone
Along with the paltry coins,
Could you hear what I wanted to say?
“Hello?” You repeated, a little alert,
I listened to your silence, trying to smile,
It sank like warm music on my heart,
Waltzes and sonatas were so cliché.
Where were my words? Just one would suffice,
Couldn’t I sum us up in a single word?
I couldn’t find the kigo to our season.
I had lost it, left it with you,
That and my voice
In the world I was forced to leave,
And all this while I was held,
Tenuously to you by this phone call,
Till I heard the strained dial tone again,
In this silent world I’ve come to inhabit.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings,
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour’s drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;
And where they fly for dinner no one knows—
The dew-drops feed them not—they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine
All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—
When night reposes, for they can do no less;
Then, to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,
And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all,
In silken beds and roomy painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer-day,
Now in the corn-fields, now in the new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid,
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.
2.1k
The train pulled into the station
It was the beginning years
The days were not my own
Her, yanking my arm as we boarded
Me, following unsteadily down the row
Hers, the only seat available
Something to be shared
Something to be taken
The sounds of the engine and passengers
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination unknown
The train pulled into the station
It was the young years
The days were meant to be savored
Me, ravenous for freedom
Her, a haunting presence
Something to avoid
Something to push to the future
My seat by the window, roomy with possibilities
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination are mine
The train pulled into the station
It was the middle years
The days were lived for others
Me, dragging myself aboard
Her, a presence in a crowded aisle
Something to hide from
Something to question
The window frosted over, hiding the passage of time
My purpose and destination traded away
The train pulls into the station
It is the golden years
The days and story my own to reclaim
Me, climbing aboard, prepared and vigilant
Her, diminished but unforgotten
My seat fully my own
Some stories to be shared
Some spirit to be rekindled
The sunset out the window, guiding the autumn of my life
My purposes and destination lighting the open road ahead
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
the plot needed thinning, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space
they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
they sighted a surplus one, what clutter it did cause
tossing overboard, heave ** out you go
the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, more roomy
the plot needed thinning, they sighted a surplus one
accommodations were crammed, what clutter it did cause
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space
heave ** out you go, tossed overboard
elbows were able to span, the place twas less congested
more roomy, not a tight squeeze
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
Gloom! Gloom! Gloom!
I can't see the Room for the Gloom
Is there anything else in this Room...
but Gloom ?
How can I bloom with all this Gloom
in the Room ?
How can I find my Vroom Vroom ?
I start a poem "Too soon! Too soon!"
And then it stops
And then there's Gloom
Fetch me a Broom that I might sweep
away all this Gloom
If only there was something else in the
Room... if only.
Doom! Doom! Doom!
How did you get in the Room ?
Who let the Doom in ?
The Doom is in the Room... Again!!!
Doom! Leave the Gloom alone
Doom!! Put the Gloom down
Doom!!! I'm warning you now!
Shall I fume, shall I fume ?
Locked in here with the Gloom and
Doom
No! I shan't fume
They'd only say he's too far goon
(ouch!)
What I need is a boom, a big big
Boom!
A Big Bang a boom boom Boom!
A Boom BOOM enough to fill the
whole Room
With that kind of BOOM!
I could take off to the Moon
Then I'd sing a different tune
There'd be no more Gloom and Doom.
But then, where would they go, what
would they do
Poor old Gloom and Little Doomy
They'd be out there in the cold with
nowhere to go
Lost without any Roomy
They'd be looking in the window at me
all sad and teary
My poor Old Gloom and my poor Little
Doomy.
No! I love my Old Gloom and, I love
my Little Doomy
I know what I'll do
I'll put the Boom in my Room with my
Gloom and my Doom
And then we'll all have ourselves a
HUGE party
A Big Blooming Booming Gloomy
Doomy
A Big Bang a Bang a Boom Boom
Boomy Doomy
We'll all have a Ball in no time at all
Down at the Old Gloom and Doomy.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
There's a Quazooy on the loosey!
In my roomy there is. No fooey.
No fooey a Quazooy, loosey, really?
What's the Quazooy do-y?
Silly Quazooy dancey on deskies.
Dancey, Nancy, fancy pantsies!
Quazooy, want somey Tutti fruity?
Snooty Quazooy no eaty fruity.
What do-y Quazooy wanty?
"No eaty," said droopy Quazooy.
Quazooy sicky? Have the fluy?
"Quazooy no more fancy Dancey.
Quazooey needy tummy rubby."
Awe-y, cutie Quazooy no more dancey,
no eaty fruity, likey tummy rubby.
Now Quazooey tummy grumbly,
Facey lookies redy and crumbly.
Few wee! Quazooey now I knowy!
No more desky fancy dacey,
Not Tutti fruity, 'cause youy
wenty tooty in your pantsies!
Now Quazooy once morey dancey.
Fancy Nacey pantsy dancey.
Luvy Quazooy nowy not ooyie!
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
*i woke to the sounds of my 25 year old nephew
playing a video game with his roomy loud as ****
everyone could hear them even his kid
he told his son Santa is coming so go to sleep
yet he continued his game loud as ****
not bothering me i went to the computer
turned it on and could not log in
eating Santa 's cookies and drinking his milk
his kid came to me crying, what about Santa
i said i have it covered i just text Santa
i got him a ****** so he will defiantly come
only three, not understanding he ran to his bed
and quit his crying with joy in his eyes
i now unpack his gifts and putting them
under the tree
he will now find his dreams
under that tree*
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
Don't forget that,
I whisper to
The pillow under
Your cool moonlight.
A sacrifice to
My God,
To your terra-cotta lips,
Warm and glimmering,
Like the tiles on a July day,
On that chateau we stayed at in Nice.
To your laugh,
Gaffawing at a viral sensation,
Bursting like the atomic bombs,
To me, it's a champagne cork,
That night in the balcony fountain.
To your eyelids closed,
The same ivory shade of your breast,
And our children's cheeks
As you held them, cuddle them,
Tickle them, sob with them,
So right in our roomy, rickety home.
To your breath,
Taken in like a quick pull of a line,
Your arching spine,
Parallels the bridge above our heads,
As we sail on
Catalina in the Sound.
To your hands,
Crinkled soft like paper,
Tears ran down those creases
As we passed through the shadows.
But don't cry, wherever you are,
For I am with you.
In the creaking of the pedals,
As you tumble off your bike.
The sheets pulled over your face,
Your body racked with sobs for
Some boy, a cosmic second.
I am with you in the bright gold of your cords,
As you cross the stage for your diploma.
I am with you on the dreary playground,
As children in puffer coats and hats pick fun at you.
I am with you in the collegiate cologne
of the moment you gave it all up,
Some boy, a cosmic second.
But I am with you most in
The moment you gained it all back,
That supernova, explosion
When we realized, like two old friends
We'd been there together all the long,
Birth to *** to birth to sick to death
And all the love between,
And then there was no part.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
After you’ve been home for quite awhile,
With enough time to eat and drink the fruits
of the daily grind, once you have watched your
favorite show and talked your favorite talk,
Their eyes tease the thought mused by many.
You decipher the lucid expression on their face
in no time at all, or in enough time to find their lips
pursed tautly against yours, and they say,
‘Every time we say goodbye’…as they lead you
to the digs of dreamland, you wonder why a little.
You caress the thought chewed on by most as they
****** your hand. (Your arm barely fondles the burly walls
of the hall they lead you through and through to the room
at the end of the corridor.)
You trip over a laundry basket for two. They laugh,
help you up, looking in your eyes, perforating the retinas
like those cheap knives at some tacky store. You make it
to the door, it creaks open just a crack to click the little flicker back.
The space is small but roomy, with enough slack to let on a bed,
with plenty of fixtures to plug plugs into pluggers or whatever you
call them. You stalk the sack without the stigma that pillowed its petals.
You pull back its folds to reveal the nectar between its leaves.
Fresh linen. Smells like the breeze. They say, ‘Turn off the lights.’
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
'Twas March of 1958
A babe arrived, a heavyweight
As babies go he was first-rate
Really worth the nine months wait
A child so fair, so good, so bonnie
Our fourth born child, we named him Ronnie
Oer the years we watched him grow
A loving child, we loved him so
So strong, so sweet, unlike any other
A loving son, a loyal brother
he's grown from such a special lad
to a quite extraordinary dad.
It's been apparent from the start
he has an extra roomy heart
Full of giving, always sharing
towards others he is more than caring
So raise your glasses
and give some cheers
to celebrate his forty years.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
I am not pretty
I am not ugly
I am not fat
nor am I skinny
I'm not living
but I'm not dead
I am sleepin
but even when i'm not
feel like I'm dreamin
Things be to bright
but I guess
my souls just to gloomy
Feel trapped
when it's plenty roomy
I am here
but I'm also where
I was
an where I might be
If I keep on sailing
this sea
Up and down
spinning around
look like a professor
feel like a clown
Guess I could do better
but it's like cutting leather
They think I'm sane
so I say I'm ok
but I don't know if
this is right in the brain
Can't see what other people think
maybe everyone has these quirks and kinks
I am here
But really I've dissapeared
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
Those little words you easily forget
is frustrating, causing you to shout
as confusion reigns, your memory won’t let,
your lips allow the words to come out
old age is not what this is about
Your eyes are roomy and just stare
into the distance but, do not weep
our hands are helpless but they are there
to hold and comfort you and want to keep
a once active brain from an early sleep
Our life in pictures spread on the floor
hoping to bring a smile, or just a grin
though selfish me, I long for more
undeserving pain is ****** on him
as the one I married is deep within
The days of the week are all the same
night melts into day as life ticks by
though in my sleep ,I cry your name
hoping, mine, I will hear you try
as one day soon we will say goodbye.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
When I was young and needed wheels
my father helped me buy my first.
He worked then in a funeral home
and got a great deal on a hearse.
When first he handed me the keys
I thought there must be some mistake;
A Station Wagon for the dead-
Most dates would do a double take.
True, it had low mileage,
but a ghastly MPG.
It was very roomy in the back
where the coffins used to be.
I thought it would be hard to park,
and in that, I wasn't wrong.
Dad said the horn was customized-
when pressed it played "the Munsters" song.
Its capacious bay proved useful
when transporting beer and wine.
It even helped me to get "lucky".
a "Goth" girl thought it fine.
Pale white skin with tats and piercings'
those memories still can thrill.
Though I found it disconcerting
that she liked to lie so still.
These days I drive a Prius
in an effort to be "Green"
I work out and eat "healthy"
as I'm no longer quite so keen
to be caught lying in the back
of a flatbed limousine .
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
LOVE
is
spacious and roomy,
giving me freedom
to
grow.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
There's a spider singing from it's web
above in the corner of the window
and I hear it's voice as the tide does ebb
and smile at the casual words that flow.
Come find me in the spring, it says
by the land of lemonade and honey
where the sleeping and eating is plenty.
Come find me there by the duck pond,
where the grass dips its hot tendrils
and honeysuckle and cactus flowers meet
to talk of how the wind blows.
Come find me by the willow tree
split in twain one autumn day
where the Owl makes his roomy nest
in the dark, there, I like it best.
And I smile, for I know the song
from years and years ago
and though I'd like to sing along
I've forgotten how it goes.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:04 PM UTC
Hanging in the cupboard
at the end of the row
it was pink with big black spots
short and tight
like a mini when she wanted
roomy above
three quarter length sleeves
high at the neck to hang a necklace
it lived there
in that old dilapidated wardrobe
with the hinge just holding
layers of dirt on the top
she couldn't reach up to that
once in a blue moon
there would be a use for it
she could dress up again
show off her cherished garment
feel new and young again
walk taller
although she was already bent from arthritis
when she arrived last time
someone said
oh you've got that old thing on again
she blushed bright red
and shed an inner tear
one time a gentleman said
what a charming dress you have
and then she glowed all through with happiness
Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th March 2016
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
Rabbit sits lonely and still.
At first she had two beaus,
now none.
By herself in her roomy cage,
never bred, never kindled,
a spinster at two and a half.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
taking shots of herbal tea
to substantially swallow the floodgates of my thoughts
it had been six months with no word
and i hadn't spoken either
my mouth was a hotel for ghosts
that would float up to my brain and create a resort
the memories of you playing on a 36mm reel over and over
until throwing up wouldn't even purge you out of my system.
finally using your brain you spoke up
and the ghosts vanished.
you are quite the intuitive ghost.
stab my brain with the hope you will be back
the pain increases as responses grow weary,
and your fear swallows your intuitive mind once again.
its a shame to know what you want, ghost:
and never actually go for it.
and that is the true battle.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
I’m just trying to get through the day
Trying to find the right words to say
To keep my luck from going south
To keep my feet out of my mouth
To find the right games to play.
Nobody to play with anyway.
Hoping for a brighter day,
Just trying to get through today.
Some of the people around me
Sometimes seem to surround me
Even when I don’t call them to me
It can make me a bit gloomy.
It’s not like they’re my college roomy.
So they often even astound me.
I wonder how they found me.
I don’t like them close to me.
I try to keep my nose to the wheel
My **** in my seat, but maybe I feel
A bit under the management’s thumb;
That it’s better to act rather dumb
Than call attention to my non-zeal
And disbelief that this is all real.
I mean, I push the stone uphill daily.
Is it meant that I accomplish it gaily?
After all, I’m not saving lives here.
I’m just packaging a lot of beer,
Or counting busy streams of cases,
Along with others without faces.
Our job is just exactly that kind;
It is meant to be a mindless grind.
It’s not meant to be any fun.
It is just that which must be done.
So tote that barge, lift your weary ****
I know to keep my big mouth shut.
Don’t compare notes, especially about pay
Or they let you go at the end of the day.
That’s who I am, a regular working slob.
Count my blessings I even have a job.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC