"stairwell" poems
will the sunlight lead me home or will I stumble up the stairwell?
did the moonlight cloak our hips or did the steam outline our shadows?
do you see the hopes I see or just avoid the air I breathe?
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
Trying to find solace in the suburbs
when everything seemed superb
like that cookie-cutter,
picket fence,
faux fur mentality
they instill at the start
Just an infant with scars
He reached for her baby bump,
Then slammed it hard
onto the stairwell
She fell, wept, and held
That lil princess
and prayed she'd never have the same hell
All grown up. Alive and well
shes got different demons
different intricate cells
It's been said
she is special she is awake
But, in many ways
She is the same
As that ANGEL who carried her 23 years ago
That's debt I'll always owe
A gift I'll never own
Carefully Constructed
and Creatively Sewn
shoved a soul into that shell
That'll one day guide her back home
Shes got her mamas tough, yet gentle heart
her smile, brevity and love for art..
she can write her *** off
like her
the wrote and the writ
Yet she's plagued by guilt
every ******* minute
GUILT for the life that she'd been given
GUILT for each exhale emitted
She prays that God will have the sense
to go back in time and hit OMIT
(on all chapters even close to the word 'human'
there's GUILT for feeling guilty even more for despising your own )
"I must've slipped through the gate, admit it!
Or recruit another for your mission
regretfully, I must solicit
that I'm not fit for this position
I'm no hero
I'm the villain
If ya look close you'll see
I spit venom"
Mama walks in
smiles and says
"WE.
ARE.
WOMEN!"
"Betta recognize and
quit your bitchin'
as of today, you are living..
You are loved
You are safe
You are ************* winning
WARRIOR,
CREATOR,
QUEEN,
GODDESS,
INCARNATE..
We are strength & We are the faith
never to be broken
but we still stay brave
The Legend wont start
or end with you
Its a fight stretched out
through time
You will understand soon
No matter how much you ask
"WHY"
It wont stop circumstance
wont stop lies
wont stop suffering
and will NEVER compromise
Your in the way of the wave, child
This..... the secret to life
When in the way of the wave...
its only a matter of time
S0 if youre searching for solace
Will you promise
To memorize this line
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
2002:
today i kicked the door
to history off it's hinges
my jealous frame:
still too proud to say a word
it seems my folks forgot
to pencil in growth marks
cause they thought their boy
would never grow out of small breath
******* dead, years now buried
and i bare his name
too many syllables
for my father to go back
fish & play football
to stand in the yard and play catch
1994:
my mom, the bombshell in retrospect
broke her back in her sleep
a thousand times
since the stairwell in 87'
she still sits for spills
post nuclear about settling
now from the couch
she's a weather report
spouting nonsense
that makes my father
grow grey, crack remotes
& slam doors to dark rooms
abandoning ship
for "cheers" & "scienfeld"
while my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets his place at the table
and my appetite is abducted
by family photos
my mother says things like
"go see your brother today"
-- Johnny's long gone
don't you remember?
we buried him
the day your smile died
2014:
you are inches from me
********* a stray hair
caught in the fabric of your coat
the last remnants of a dog
we laid to rest last week
and here we are
in the hospital again
people don't shake like dogs
finality is found
in the eyes of humans
passing archways
into shallow rooms
where plague and prayer
are the only songs sung
round the stagnant clocks
it makes me wonder
if the clipboards cry
over being the last thing
someone ever writes on
take a number, have a seat
stay a while
i am back, 7 years old
& there are different doors now
they buried the ones
you kicked in that night in '92
when my lungs
were filled with holy water
you never stopped smoking
i never grew out of asthma
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Today at the train station
A stranger came up to me
And asked for directions.
I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones
Or take him behind the stairwell and
Gut him
And let his family watch as stomach and liver
Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply
Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks
As the half five train approaches.
It would give people a reason to
Remove their sunglasses,
And possibly even their iPods,
Headphones dangling uncomfortably
As they fumble to save a pointless
(As well as futile) situation.
Maybe they would film it with their phones.
Maybe I'd be famous.
Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,
Tell him the correct train to travel on,
And slowly smile as he waddles off
And doesn't believe me.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
there were
shadows
that fought
for the right to
exist
descended off
the stairwell
fell into
the frostlake
and it continues.
before
they struggled
in the dark
then,
everything's gone.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
Took the 17 down nicollet
Passed the City Center
Passing time
Passing men on the streets with an open guitar case
Passed the kids with their skateboards
Passed the guys covered in ink playing fight night on the street
Fifth street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk
The sharks fight the jets
Romeo goes to Juliet
Old men with canes talk on their cell phones
Nicollet and 4th feels a little heavy tonight
11:47 comes my bus
Down 4th ave
Passing time
Passing the former home of the Twins
Passed the cops with their lights on
Passed some kids in their visors
Red light
Doswell street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk
Out on the street
Street lamps glow fluorescent
New moon fixed in the stars
Tilted, slightly
The tweakers stay in the shack down the block
They’ve got the rocks in their socks
And they’re sleeping on the carpet
Welcome mat turned over
Shades drawn tight
And an icy cold feeling runs in their veins
And they roll back into a dream
Apartment building
Stairwell
Door 10
Living room.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
tues.
exhausted piano teeth mozart pere
gnashing slashing sound barrier
stretching zoology beyond the bird
cannibals in the a-z azimuth
weds.
mirage of red awnings all-night resort
cannibals in the azimuth stairwell décor
thurs.
cold as leprosy embraced
yet somehow curled
fri.
frail departure voice to ****
height hair duck drake
cold as geology young rocks flame
(hidden within the blink of eye)
4.9k
She whimpers atop
Stairwell; I pass by, never
Even to wipe but one tear.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
the barren heart has no cushion.
no warmth. no *****
a virus seeped into the blood.
leaving the spirit in a funk.
just how is is it done?
the killing of man.
day by day destroying a peaceful vibration.
A stairwell of conditions for one to meet.
headed down, not up, for a financial treat.
lie to yourself and the lie will haunt.
leaving you barren hearted
in a meaningless funk.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
Once upon a time, Oh but that’s such a boring way to start-
Once upon a time.
I was little red riding hood that knowingly stepped
onto the wrong side of the path,
Hoping that a monster in the woods
would come and get me, but you-
A hurricane,
car crashes in slow motion,
personified heartbreak-
Too much.
Too much applesauce madam? The waiter asked, clean-shaven face bathed
In the New York skyline, ignorant to the gunfire explosions
inside me as I waited for you.
No thank you, sir.
“Meet me at the station”,
scrawled in messy, love- stained letters
In between the railway roars and the clatters of foreign accent, you've flaked again, like the struck chord of a bass
Signifying disappointment like a punch line
Reverberating through my skull.
Okay, repeat the mantra, one-two-steady-
Okay. It's Okay.
Four weeks later
I had your body pushed up flush against bricks and-
No shut up you don’t get to say anything after you go and shatter me like that
You’re sick do you know that? Lips snarling, heart breaking.
You’re sick.
So maybe I was the big bad wolf after all.
Stairwell bricks glinted off iridescence and
your mouth in that sad, sad laugh
Studying me like a dream brought
to the ground,
Puffy lipped and eyes blown wide like I was on some psychedelic high-
And you said
*“You’re still a child with fanciful ideas of love, and the way you cling onto them-
Quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”*
Please darling, let me redefine myself
Skip the pleasantries and small talk,
scrap the story of little red riding hood-
Once upon a time, I was apology and you were forgiveness
I can imagine inside you, of alarm bells and sunken souls
as you listen to the static white noise of
A dying heart
Hello darling, are you there? Can you hear me? Is this mic working?
I hate to sound like those magazine cut outs-
I hate to sound like,
Just another lover, just another cliché-
But you were the matchstick to my dynamite
and nothing feels better
Than my own self- destruction, so won’t you please
Another chance? No?
Even Lucifer sometimes longs to be let
Into the gates of heaven again
I’ve cooked some apology,
I saved a plate for you
So for the love of god come inside and have some before it goes cold.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 5:04 AM UTC
I walk across the landing
and through the double doors
and aim towards the lift shaft,
that's where I'm going, of course.
It's as if it hears my footsteps
and needs no company
as that old elevator
shoots down to level 3.
Every single morning
as I approach its doors
it disappears pretty quick
down to those lower floors.
I swear it sees me coming
and doesn't like the look
so as I rush to hitch a ride
the **** thing slings its hook.
The doors are on a system,
computerised I read.
But whenever I get near them
they change the ****** speed.
I stand alone here waiting
and it just isn't fair
'cause I am stuck up here
when I want to be down there.
It speeds down to the bottom
and sits on the ground floor
you can here it taunting you
with the movements of the door.
Then after what seems ages
it gradually starts to rise
giving me some hope at last
as I can hear the noise.
Then it makes a pit stop
at another floor
and seems to take forever
to open and close its door.
Each and every level
seems to get a viewing
as if it wants to **** some time,
with my mind it is ********
And then it reaches the sixth floor
as if it is my saviour
and finally opens up the doors
as if it's doing a favour.
It seems as if this machine
requires me to stalk
so now I've found the stairwell
and instead I'm going to walk.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
[Police were called to a New Jersey school after a student accused another student of racism for calling brownies brownies. In defense of the police no one was arrested]
Brownies are sweet, tasty and brown,
but New Jersey’s schools hear this with a frown.
Color’s off color, don’t you know--
mention it, and the Thought Police
will have you in tow.
Blondies are sweet and a bit greasy--
a tasty snack, not a girl who’s easy.
But better call them cake, or you’ll be dissed
as someone who is completely sex-ist.
Anything you say can and will be held against you--
mot just by the cops, but by those you thought you knew.
It’s the days of Stalin, or “1984” from Orwell;
better watch what you say; they might be listening in the stairwell.
Once we all worshipped the First Amendment.
Now "politically correct" has gone beyond heavy-handed.
Use only approved phrases, or outcast will be your fate--
Political Correctness destroyed a country once great.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Just a disappointment
I don't hate,
It’s just wasteful-
Breathing in
and never breathing out.
The space is empty
with crammed tug-of-wars
dragging my heart,
Heart dragging months.
I don't think
any less or worse-
Character undefined. Always repetitive.
Bored of the ****
pulling over old paintings;
Same as yesterday,same as before.
I don't cry
for actions cowardly
shunted inwards;
Explosion due released.
The shedding tears,
carving maps upon lips,
design attention
inward reaps deliverance.
I don't hurt
for lacking sensitivity-
desire for one embellished
with lapping present conviction.
The same minuscule point,
returned again and again-
Intentions to change;
Stairwell to nowhere.
Oct 10, 2009
Oct 10, 2009 at 9:44 AM UTC
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.
there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me. and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
—but it feels ******
g o o d .
my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...
REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling ******* held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***
“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
*"No one's gonna take my soul away
I'm living like Jim Morrison...
In the land of Gods and Monsters
I was an angel"*
Lana Del Rey
Innocence lost, made her crazy
her smile forced, living twisted lies
bitter sweet memories, captured
in death defying detail
waken by the same song bird
who only blessed hope in the
darkness of a new dawn,
singing from the soul,
with filtering movements across
a chipped wood window ledge
enough to keep this young girls
heart in place, making her sad
even cry, with solitude, mixed
with an urgent sense of joy
a window ledge looking out
to grand oak trees, squirrels
playful in flight,
shaken autumnal leaves drop
whispering stories
to the blue **** chaffinch, swallows
a lowly stray cat jumps
chases leaves that swirl
mini tornados, whistling winds
chasing his tail
a thief of his prey he captures
a baby bird of first flight
racing off into bushes
hiding his feed for the day
A cacophony of deafening
sounds forces their noise
up the narrow stairwell
pounding feet; her father
he frightens the song bird
away, and a silence forms
In her nightdress
Emily grabs the soft torn eared
teddy, lays flat to the dusty
wooden floor and hides
under the four poster bed
silent as a ghost
she is filled with the same
fear, she faces each
and every
day.
© Sia Jane
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
I awoke to screaming
Only it wasn't my own
This time, it appeared
Someone had invaded my home
I got up quickly
I reached for my bat
But knew that if anything would help
It probably wouldn't have been that
But still, quietly I crept down the stairwell
In the kitchen stood a man
Or what appeared to be
He gazed at me and raised his hand
One finger to his lips, "Shhh"
So I raised my eyebrows and opened my mouth
To speak but he shushed me louder
This time and lowered himself into a crouch
And that's when I saw what he had done
Below his massive, crouched down frame
Was a shattered bottle of milk
He stared at it solemnly, knowing he was to blame
Then he looked back up at me
"Please don't tell my mother."
A single tear rolled down his big face
"She loves me like no other."
The tears were streaming now
I didn't know what to say
Here was a hulking man, in my kitchen
I suddenly felt I could no longer stay
If I go back up stairs will he leave? Or **** me in my sleep?
I backed up a little and said
*"If you just go now,
I'll just be getting back to bed."*
He smiled, his tears glinting off moonlight
"Thank you! But please! Turn around."
And for some reason I did
When I turned back, he was nowhere to be found
The milk was cleaned too, glass and all
I scratched my head in disbelief
I was still groggy from sleep
Anyone ever heard of a break, weep and clean?
I'd think not
I'd like to think not
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
"The problem is that if you put a green
pepper in with a tomato, it turns brown."
Why not try an onion?
I ask myself as the conversation passes me
on the stairwell
Roommates wake each other up now
juicing
You can't argue with juicer that their new
obsession will not make them live to 120
or experience life on a knife's edge
Maybe our brains aren't that large, after all
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Soaked senses tell me
the top of the "mountain" is dry
like ice.
With a hyper-awareness
I clatter along,
with a warm coating
of ever-changing plaid
warmer than flannel-
burlap bones
wrapped in velvet veins-
and all of these observations
report to a head of fuzzy stars.
So when this stairwell
feels like a scene from the Cold War,
with its chilled chipping cinder block,
violent eruptions,
and moaning drafts-
a cause that my allies
in the self-flushing latrines
have long forgotten-
I will understand,
as they will,
and you'll just have to trust
the facts reported to you
from yours truly.
-Gonzo
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
yes all women
because people cringe at the word "feminism".
because I am not a feminist, I am a woman.
I am a human being.
because this poem is a one-sided sexist rant.
because I was fifteen years old when my mother first taught me about how to hold car keys as a weapon in case anyone ever attacked me.
because teenage girls are taught to never walk alone in a parking garage.
because in elementary school I was told to switch which side of the street I was walking on while going home if a man was approaching me in the same direction.
because when I was twelve my parents gave me my first cell phone for when I was out riding my bike, or taking a walk.
because I can't wear a spaghetti strap tank top to school, as it will "distract the boys".
because boys are distracted by a bony girl in a spaghetti strap tank top.
because freshmen girls are taught not to date senior boys, instead of senior boys being taught not to go after freshmen girls.
because senior boys go after freshmen girls.
because when I was ten years old I told my dad that my grandfather made me feel uncomfortable, and he got angry at me for making such a blasphemous statement.
because even after I told my mother, and she talked to my father, he ignored it completely.
because my grandfather made me, at ten years old, feel uncomfortable.
because when I was fourteen my boyfriend broke up with me since I "didn't put out".
fourteen.
because by ninth grade I had received my first unwanted and unwelcomed advance.
because I didn't tell anyone.
because school administrators turn the other cheek when a girl is ***** in the stairwell*.
because **** charges are being dropped by judges.
because victims are being bullied into silence.
because a hashtag is the most sincere form of activism.
*because **** is a crime no matter what color you try to paint the picture*.
because I will go to bed tonight, after posting this poem, after telling my story, and I will wake up tomorrow.
and nothing will change.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Glances from across the room louder than the music
louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop.
Musical notes clamouring against the floor,
don't pick them up.
leave them there,
walk around them
on tip toe
in ballet slippered feet.
feather light or lead heavy.
veins of lightning.
forming vowel sounds with my mouth.
ooooooOooOOO
EEeeeee
i. i. i.
AHhhhhh
Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops,
coming up the stairwell
the warmth of wanting
the bite of yearning.
Flushed pink.
Pinched red.
Pricked purple.
Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts
turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips.
Naked and waiting.
Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red.
OOoooowww.
Gimme a sec.
3-5 business days until rejection.
I'll keep you posted.
48 hours of maybe.
Lemme get back to you.
No RSVP
establishing a lack of certainty.
but but but
Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP
But when?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
Everyday.
I don't.
I write
Of a knight in shining armor
Who has
So peacefully rescued me
From
Terrifying,
Fire-breathing,
All-nighters.
It pains me
That in these next few days
Away from his embrace
I am left
Staring at his weaponry:
Hot dog pillows
Duvets
Comforters.
With them,
He's won many battles.
But now I'm back here,
Locked up in this tower of
Unfinished requirements.
The essays
Have destroyed the stairwell.
Lab reports
Have blocked up my doors
And he left me,
Sleep left me
A damsel in distress
With caffeine and homework
Running in my bloodstream.
I peek out of my window,
Stare at the ground below,
Still not a sign of Sleep anywhere.
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
Everyday.
I don't.
I write of one I miss
Every night.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Someone watched from below at a crooked angle,
As I carried a metal baseball bat through the parking lot.
In tattered, blood stained clothes, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt,
I continued forward, ready to do what I intended.
Through the door and up a dark, black stairwell I strode…
In a midnight rage, I shattered glass, busted walls and tables,
And growled as I felt my weapon vibrate against wood and plaster.
I demolished computers, tipped over desks
And knocked out windows, spewing glass down below.
I smiled a gritty smirk as I progressed
through my night of destruction…
I poured gasoline and lit a match,
As I walked back out into that heavy night.
With a steady stride, I left with my bat,
And from behind, felt a soothing, comforting warmth.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
You've got stars in your eyes
And dew drops on your cheeks
You wake every mornin'
At a quarter to three
In a valley somewhere
You decided you needed to be
And you never call me
But I still hear your voice
Like ghosts on a stairwell
Just making noise
And I cannot let myself dwell
Cause if I stay too long
I just might drown
in the space you left
In the chatter around
My heart beats in time
To the records you played
But I'm still all alone
At the end of the day
Unless you can count your ghost
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
A decade from now,
My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
To pick at anymore.
I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.
Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
And ten years down the road
Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.
I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
Letting all the quatrains pass me by.
Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
With no periods
But a blank space
Where your name should be.
I’d like to think that someday
I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
And scattered similes in the air like skittles
During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.
I like to entertain the thought that someday
Someday
People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.
They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
A passenger seat,
The floor by a bathroom,
A stairwell,
Under a tree.
I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.
But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.
When it hurt too much
To just write-
I love you.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC