"squeaking" poems
I've been sleeping in odd places
next to a ***** blanket
on the floor of this cold apartment.
I get little sleep because my insomnia
keeps saying ridiculous ****
and its starting to scare me.
I find myself frozen when he asks me
Do you think you know yourself
He tells me I care too much about the answers
I tell him he isn't very good company.
He tells me I try too hard for others
that I'm only going to get my heart broken.
I tell him it's still worth it
He crawls closer to the couch
and impersonates my crying.
I've been sleeping in odd places
next to a confused womanizer
on the bed that can't stop squeaking.
They never look at me directly
they can't afford to find attachment
under these eyes of mine
when it's only the cuffing season
I've been sleeping in odd places
next to my anxiety
on the floor of my mind.
I'm clutching onto these old photographs
like little snippets of my life
I'm trying to piece myself together
with all the bad that I have done
So I'll cut all these photos
Keep some to collage myself
And make some meaning of it all
I've been sleeping in odd places
Under the Tennessee stars
Swaying in my hammock
I hear the fire crackle
And I know this is a photo
I'll keep for myself
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
Garments stripped from worn bones and weary mind
Feet dragged on tile; hands grasp plastic veil
Stepping into a tub; near swoon divine
A pure, naked self emancipation,
before the squeaking running metalware
that erases the daily equation.
Dancing, singing tunes of own devices:
Cupid, Shooting Star, Sister Golden Hair
Rocky Mountain High, American Pie
****** bosses gonna kiss ***** here
Astronauts, cowboys, and rockstars meet here
Best yet, the individual is here
Although merely hidden by a curtain,
all for your view is but a damp shadow.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
you check on me many times a day
with my antique ears
I hear your squeaking shoes
on these vinyl floors
someone laid for those who came before
like passengers on a stalled bus
with windows that allowed only one view
I know you and I wait for the same thing
for you to check on the passenger who replaces me
he will be no different
a few more hairs, perhaps a few less stares
you will gently place your hand on his wrist
write in his chart, and maybe
glance at the date of birth,
do the mindless math
and wonder without wonder
if my replacement will have a bigger number than I
but I am still here
gazing at your angled eyes
while you count the beats
which slow a little each day
waiting for you to say
how long will this one last?
don’t worry, squeaking vinyl floor walker
when my drum stops pounding
I will try to make sure it happens
while I am asleep
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
*At day you can’t see them, because they are nowhere to be found.
But when the light is out, they head to the empty playground.
For while you are surrounded by walls, in your bed dreaming.
This is the place where their childish hearts are pretending to be beating.
The seeker is covering their eyes while counting loudly to ten.
Here they get the chance to play their favorite games once again.
Fighting carelessly over plastic toys and digging in the damp sand.
It looks like a lively place to be, instead of yet another wasteland.
They are hiding in the trees, giggling. Who can climb all the way to the top?
Tiny hands are holding on to each other, spinning around until they almost throw up.
Going down the rusty red slide: some are going fast, others nice and slow.
And if they hear you coming, they’ll be gone like the first flake of snow.
Far away, you might hear a familiar sound of squeaking swings.
Laughter is echoing through the night, carried into the town by bird wings.
They are trying to evade being captured, while running in a green ocean of clover.
But the sun is lurking in the dawn;
soon their fun and games will be over.*
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
The principal in a cool cartoon tee
His fashion sneakers squeaking across the floor
Sets out candy, pizzas, and canned sodas
Arranges a door prize, and assembles the faculty
Requires them to sign in so he can check on them
Orders them to hold hands and sing the school song
Reminds them they are all one big family
As a preface to his primary agenda:
To tell them to be more professional
The principal in a cool cartoon tee
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
I'm a very cheesy fella
and i love a tasty platter
from stretchy mozzarella
through to cubes of feta
i like them very old
like Camembert and brie
i wait until they turn to mold
to be inside of me
i like them very smelly
crumbly soft or squeaking
at the supermarket deli
my lips already licking
then tasting can begin
with a few red wines
which release my cheesy grin
and cheesy pick up lines
Oct 12, 2019
Oct 12, 2019 at 2:03 AM UTC
She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.
The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.
Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.
Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his,
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft carries smoke and cedar.
distant wildfires.
Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement,
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.
Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.
Somewhere past Brockway Summit
a ridgeline blooms orange.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
when i'm sitting alone at night
in the quietness of my large and aging house
i hear so many noises i'm oblivious to
during the daylight
the clicks of the air conditioning
switching on and off,
the creaking of the floors and walls,
the subtle squeaking the fan makes
in the living room
it's as if my house is sighing
it's sighing at me
disappointed in me
he asks why i don't notice him
during the day
why i only notice him late at night
when i'm lonely
and there are no other noises
to entertain my ears
i tell him that i'll try to listen more closely
in the morning, but then i fall asleep
and i wake up and i do not remember
what i promised my sweet house
so he continues to sigh all day long
hoping that at some point
even if it's late at night when i'm lonely
and there is no other noises
to entertain my ears
i will notice him again
if only for a little while
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Prepubescent voices
crawl back and forth
A squeaking, scratching chorus of topics
unbeknownst to the speaker
Meaningless sounds produced just to be heard
Drowned out by the unfortunately undeafening silence
of headphones plugged into nothing
Misdirected words, hidden insults, skewed meanings
Subtle bullying pretends to be older and wiser
when it is terrified of new things
Gay, **** emo, **** laughter
Because the body is hilarious
Crowded faces: authority is buried under the splotchy noise
Enter swear here _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Because ****** is an address
And “You have no friends” is just kidding
“Go **** yourself” is love
Outward rudeness to the man who puts himself though it daily
An example for the even less learned
7-year-old cursing
Because ******* means nothing to them
or anyone else.
Sit down because there are seats
Look in my eyes, taken back immediately
stupidity realized in a golden split second of mortification
Split second passes now with more phantom confidence
One by one skip, saunter, slither down three steps
Yellow noise recedes not fast enough
Obnoxious created by too much television
And its weird to be gay, and gay to be weird
Unacceptable open windows to normality
Jack my swag
Kindly,
Will you please shut the f* * * up.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
On a warm afternoon
the gulls are squeaking
life is calm
children are speaking
life is calm
A bus screeches to a halt
All remains calm
A dog draws his last breath
He met his fate two seconds back
Then all is calm.
Children are silent
Tears well in eyes
The big red bus in shock
hearing cries
from the office block
And all is silent and calm.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
her milk is him
her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard
her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep
her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved
her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
“*you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me*”
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
breaking ice in my mineral water
lime spritzing the air and
dripping down my fingertips
as i twist it and sip its tang
hot sunlight radiating on my
body until the sweat glistens
at even the slightest movement
the rustle of well-worn pages
his sharp Adam's apple
rolls ever so slightly with a swallow
of the sparkling glass
the bubbles, like tiny diamonds
the hiss of the sprinkler next door
and the squealing chortles
of the neighbor kids running in it
chocolate melting on my tongue
chair squeaking when I recline
Happy is as happy does, but
I'm thankful happy's mine.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Happy Unicorn Poem
Prancing in the meadow,
Warm sunshine on her face
The happy unicorn did not see
The hunter’s hiding place.
Eating rainbow candy,
Smiling ear to ear
The happy unicorn did not know
The grim reaper lurked so near.
Singing gentle lullabies
To the butterflies,
The happy unicorn did not know
She’d cause them all to die.
Lapping at the trickle
Of the crystal, sparkling stream
The happy unicorn did not hear
The hunter’s arrow ZING.
A chipmunk tried to warn her
Squeaking out in fright
But it was simply much too late
With the arrow fast in flight
A pretty yellow songbird
Tried to knock the arrow off its path
But the arrow’s razor edges
Cut the songbird right in half.
Then a fuzzy little bunny
Jumped as high as he could jump
When the arrow passed right through his throat
He fell down in a clump.
A brightly colored butterfly
flew into the arrow’s way,
the arrow was not diverted,
It was not her lucky day.
Only three feet later
The arrow found its mark
Extinguishing forever
The creature’s living spark
The hunter popped up in delight
feeling quite a thrill.
That he would soon be famous
for his magical creature ****
He bounded through the meadow,
running toward the woods
yelling out in victory
“I always knew I could.”
He kicked aside the chipmunk,
He stepped upon the bird
He booted the bunny’s body
into a pile of mud.
He was almost to the butterfly,
When he stopped.
Dead in his tracks.
What he saw before him,
Caused his body to go slack.
He did not see a unicorn,
Lying lifeless there,
But it was his precious daughter
his own arrow in her hair.
The Old Enchanted Meadow
With deep magic all around,
Teaches lessons to all of those,
Who trod her sacred ground.
Today the hunter learned the most painful one of all,
A man who would **** a unicorn does not deserve beauty at all.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.
I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.
Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.
Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.
Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Grown men, bickering like rats,
Squeaking around obvious facts,
To the sewers! Stinky bats!!
Two-face snitches, and their shameless acts.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
a hundred years of rain
drops down the tall, tilted rooftop
towards the porous landscape below,
as love soaks, the dust settles.
dreams of fluid summers
in the nineteen hundreds,
children's laughter echoing
through candle lit halls of timber,
front porch rocking chairs squeaking
after grandpa's dinner
where this happy home
is a dream you'll remember.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Squeaking sneakers squealing as the smoker squelched across the slippery shiny surface.
Sweat slipping off the smokers snout as the law chased. Oliver the overweight officer was overly panting but gained no advantage. Had he finally met his match?
Safe and sound in a storage facility the smoker stayed silent.
Oliver smashed the smoker across the kisser. He'd smelt out his prey by the stench resonating from the smokers smelly socks.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
my wife went to town
on a dark
cold and windy
night
she drove
slow at first
then faster
as the wheels
squeaked
louder
as she came
to a bend in the road
and another
and another
she kept her foot
on the pedal
and eyes ahead
as a tall oak
came
into view
basking like
under an entranced moon
then
as a torrent of rain
squaws danced
wheels squeaking louder
she reached town
somewhat exhilarated
and looking back
the entranced moon smiled
and cooed
LR-4/23/17
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 4:56 AM UTC
Out on the path, I wait for her
my friend who’s just for me.
We play and sing and laugh a lot,
though no-one else can see.
You call her imaginary,
but she’s real and best of all,
she’s made a solemn promise
to be here when I call.
My mum says she’s not really there,
though the truth is mum don’t know
the fun me and my friend have had
or the places that we go.
We get lost in the forest
and fly up to the stars,
then sit upon the rooftops
throwing jelly beans at cars.
We’ve dug up buried treasure
and stared Blackbeard in the face.
And we’ve ridden Pegasus
to see the earth from space.
If you think I may be fibbing,
I’ll tell you it’s no lie -
to say we’ve seen most everything,
my secret friend and I.
But now the time is ticking,
she’s never usually late.
But here I am still waiting
sitting by the gate.
I feel the world revolving
as seasons come and go.
I never thought she wouldn’t come,
but perhaps I finally know.
That secret friends are mortal
and don’t last forever,
but I’m quite sure I won’t forget
the times we spent together.
I think I hear the clock indoors
chiming half past four.
The day has almost passed without her,
I’m not so little anymore.
But, just as I turn to go inside,
I hear the squeaking gate
“I’m so sorry,” my friend cries
“I didn’t mean to be this late”!
The world turns again to greet the moon
and my friend and I shall roam,
weaving in and out of dreams
making memories our own.
So, grown-ups if you’re finding,
modern life hard to survive,
wait a while, by the gate
you never know who may arrive.
Though you may not have seen them
for about a hundred years,
secret friends remain with us
and help allay our fears
that we all grow old and crinkly
and forget how to dance and laugh
just have a little patience
and pause there on the path.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
A man poses at a dimly lit table,
a light hangs directly overhead
with a cobweb ribbon-wrapped around
the steel wire escaping the ceiling.
An inverted roulette table,
a man betting against the house:
It is always this way.
Light flickers, flipped on,
and off, and on,
without a switch
with which to assert control.
He is alone in the squeaking chair,
sipping tea and dipping his crumb-covered
hands into the napkin-covered basket
of water crackers and salted peanuts.
Sitting, he poses for practice, but for now,
he practices for no one.
The house is empty.
In the back of his mind, there is no worry
of what one will find upon entering
the kitchen: A scarecrow at a table,
full of straw and teeth dulled down
from night grinding,
sitting in, what could be mistaken
as, a pensive position.
The scavenger hand makes him look wanting.
It's partner is propped on chin,
accompanied by his half-sculpted smile
and the dark-light contrast of his hair and eyes
with yellow shining off of his two front teeth.
The color is not the fault of stumbling home
too late to care for the mouth, but of the old
incandescent staring him down
and the obsessively clean, marble surface
at which he puckers his face.
A tapping in the hall stirs his bones
and his body darts up.
A crow, it seems, with small grey beak
has wandered in from the overgrown fields,
the fields that haven't been tended to
since this boy began taking himself too seriously.
The both of them with stilts for legs
and no breeze of running feet
from scream to sway the pair of pairs.
Their eyes connect and neither moves.
Who should place the first bet,
black or red,
and who will set the ball in motion?
The light goes off.
Denoument is a bad time
for a bulb to die.
As calm as a hand
with razorblade against skin,
the scarecrow sits down once again
and poses.
The bird observes his motion,
calls, and waits,
but the man moves no more,
overjoyed with an invisible audience,
a full stomach.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC