"sconces" poems
I search for some decor
to pretty up my house
A headboard, some dead boards
or maybe a couch?
The said so to do it
on public TV
my kitchens not pretty
as pretty as can be
But what will the neighbors
think of my design?
they'll report to the magazine
that it's beautiful and sublime!
Some ship lap, some sconces
all wrapped in a bow
i will trend till tomorrow
then die all alone
Rip it all down
Says Chip and Joanna
They are more popular
Than Hanna Montanna
They live on a ranch
an take millions to make
a spectacular suprise
for a couple to take
We all laugh an cheer
at Chip's child like antics
Which makes great TV
as Joanna gets Frantic!
Do Chip and Joanna really
care about you?
As long as the station
gets ten million views
They tell us to fix it
even though it's not broken
go shop till you drop
and spend every token
Buy that cool sign
made from cheap yellow plastic
The richer get richer
but, our wall looks fantastic!
Do not give in
to the big corporate greed
there are sick, hungry people
and starving mouths to feed
so every cent spent
on the corporate wealth
helps the richer get richer
and we go to stealth
Wake up and see vanity
is causing distress
don't give in to pressure
of this corporate mess!
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******** apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it
Sep 26, 2021
Sep 26, 2021 at 12:20 PM UTC
I wish to return to the days long completed
when the strangest fantasies lived only in our dreams.
Now there is no more fantasy within the lidded eye.
Sleep exists only as respite from this cruel life.
We find extravagance and folly in every gilded screen.
What use is there then, for unconscious sconces within the mind,
where we can tuck away originality
until it sprouts and spreads like ivy on a British house.
We cast away any respite from this mundane wonder,
staying eager to see what else there is to see
until nothing is left of our ivy covered minds
except for meager impressions of what once was.
People who wait much further down the road
will one day walk back to this forgotten hideaway.
They will see the traces of what was
but they won’t be able to piece together
our lost lives of slumber.
And so the real unselfish tragedy,
is not our decline-
but the ensuing confusion
caused by impatient minds.
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 5:18 AM UTC
My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever
It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,
and one more,
and one more,
I said,
and it was 11:12
and suddenly,
it did.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
She
does not know
how empty I am,
without her.
My forced absence
drains me.
I miss her skin,
her hair,
her laugh,
her strong legs,
her screams,
her whiskey and mint breath,
her fingers on my chest,
her smelly ******* dog,
her cluttered kitchen,
her horrible wall sconces,
and her muscles flexing underneath me.
I miss the way we fit
so well together
in her small bed.
I miss the nervous
anxious feeling I
would get on the way over
to see her.
I think of the quiet moments we
would have after
making love, when she would twirl her hair,
and give me a new
perspective.
She was unhealthy for me,
I knew that going in.
That doesn’t change
or heal
or fix
or fill
my emptiness.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
*Wax drips from candles
Placed in sconces on the walls
To light up the house.*
-M.H.-
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
I'm sitting at a wooden desk
A quill in a *** as black as pitch
And with feathers as soft as sea water
The desk with peeling white paint
Has drawers
With crooked silver sconces
To hold the candle stumps
At night, as I write
I use parchment, not paper
Stroking the rough, grainy surface of it
Waiting for my fingers to go numb
In front of me a window
Of warped and misty glass
But I throw it open to feel the air
As its wafts, heavy and salty
Past the curtains I've hung there
And clings to my face and neck
I pretend I am the sea
Clasping the quill in my hand
Freshly dipped into its ***
I write in thin, twisting letters
I imagine they are grape vines
Twisting through an orchard
Fat with grapes
Purple from the sunrise
And these letters make words
So sweet
I can almost taste the wine on my tounge
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
Lonely, Sad, Men.
I wanna be remembered for my lack of integrity,
my pessimism, and my doubt.
"The life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."
Is the fine point in life.
Se la vie - de la mort.
Such is life-as in death.
Such is life of Death.
"Life's horrible at best."
Well **** that thought,
and die in your chest.
"You sir, are a *******
I'll never be as famous or as bright,
or have shining achievements as adorning night lights.
Sconces.
Crowning my mantle or hiding dusty walls;
But you’re dead now and your body was all
The end of mans night has come, I see an endless morning.
Not as a prophetic insight; but as a lonely mans ending story.
The prosthesis of the heart.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I wake up everyday
my eyes riveted
to the ceiling
as rainbow flecks
radiate from crystals
that reside in the middle
of the uppermost window
this bedroom marked “private”
on the door
has meant twenty-four months
complete control
freedom to design
every detail, every texture, every nuance
Handpicked
A vivid palette
splashed onto every square foot
hoping to recapture
life’s intense force
while it drowns out
nagging shadows
threatening to swallow
My space
Italian ceramic mask- topped sconces
flanking the empty space
the mosaic mirror
I’m still learning to make
the gilded cream vanity
fit for a princess
still Waits
highlighted memories
fill dusty shelves and cling to walls
called Home now
my queen size bed use to sit quietly
in my guest room
rarely disturbed
now it harbors
my dreams and fears
afloat on a sea of defiantly feminine
pillows and blankets
an eclectic mix of Me
comes out of every nook and cranny
while my inner sanctum takes shape.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.
it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.
but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Iron shackles to broken wrists,
cold, wet stone:
chains clank in the night.
Fire flickers on sconces
lining corridor walls.
Footsteps echo
down the hall;
guards speak of
a new prisoner's arrival--
Someone important, wise:
confusion abounds at
this stranger's fate.
What time shall he arrive this eve?
Where will he be taken?
This place was not built for
political prisoners.
The rest of us forgotten:
the small, shared meal lost;
hunger gnarls within.
Moans -- loved food is wasted.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
Iron shackles bind wrists
to a cold, wet stone wall.
Moans echo down the hall
while chains clank in the night.
Fire flickers on the sconces
lining the corridor walls.
Footsteps draw near.
Someone is walking down the
hallway. The guards speak
of a new prisoner's arrival.
What time shall he arrive?
Where will he be kept?
Someone important--
that's what one said.
Confusion abounds at
this stranger's fate.
This place was built not for
political prisoners to be taken to.
The rest of us forgotten,
the small meal is lost.
Hunger gnarls within:
no food will come this eve.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Baby, this will make us look be-a-u-ti-ful.
The difference between rich and poor
Has and always will be good lighting,
Marching orders-- no interrogations,
Hang the **** string lights,
Swivel the sconces to the left a hair,
Light me up baby, yes. Be-a-u-ti-ful.
They’re going to see us,
All the way from space think man,
Those ******** sure do have it all,
They must have every last Eaton, Osram
Can you imagine the bill?
Must blow the energy company’s ******* mind.
Yes, baby, yes. More filaments.
Throw some Chicago on the record player while you’re at it,
We’re going to throw the swankiest party this town’s ever seen--
Rich stuff, baby, classy.
Be-a-u-ti-ful.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 1:04 PM UTC