Inside this painted room
the lamplight pools like honey on the floorboards,
softening every corner into a place
where the world cannot intrude.
A kettle hums its small, steady song,
and the window holds a square of winter
like a memory pressed behind glass.
The colors breathe warmth
reds deep as hearth embers,
yellows that feel like held hands,
browns worn smooth by years of belonging.
Even the shadows seem gentle here,
as if they’ve learned to rest
instead of reaching for anything.
A chair waits by the fire
stitched with the quiet patience
of someone who mends more than fabric.
A book lies open on the armrest,
its pages curved like a sigh,
as though the reader stepped out
only long enough to feed the birds.
Holodook’s world holds stillness
the kind that remembers
how to cradle a life gently~
a place where nothing is hurried,
where warmth is not a luxury
but a way of seeing.
Inside this cozy, painted room,
even the silence feels like home.
Written: May 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
1st place contest winner
********************
O hallowed recliner, throne of my repose,
you cradle my chaos, you cushion my woes.
With cup-holder majesty, armrest divine,
you whisper: *“Forget the world, the remote is mine.”*
The computer hums like a loyal old pet,
its screen a sanctuary of Wi-Fi regret.
Emails parade like clowns in a ring,
while Netflix insists I watch *one more thing.*
Domestic bliss? Oh, surely it’s this—
a kingdom of crumbs, a fortress of fizz.
The recliner reclines, the keyboard complains,
yet comfort and clutter run through my veins.
So crown me with cables, baptize me in light,
let spreadsheets and sitcoms both bless my night.
For bliss is not roses, nor candlelit cheer—
It’s Wi-Fi that works, and a fridge full of beer.
Home
Songs
Love and nature
92
Period of composition (Bangla): Nineteenth Vadra, 1346
Period of composition (After Christ) September 5, 1939
Place of composition: Shantiniketan
Again and again, looking back to thee, once more,
Days and nights these foamy churns awakened, in parables, mind approached out there, rested on armrest
The verses and the divine bell, awakened on the festive zeal, with the foamy quest on a tempest
The raga-based vibes, orbiting around the tides, ecstatic zeal
From the deepest a sound diphthong, to eloquent most trochaic meandering trail, a hymn
Bhoirobi the three with the sixth, the festive fair of Ramkeli mela, Purvi, armrest, strumming along the whim
Along the foamy tempest through the golden jubilee, joyous, eloquence in ragas through vibes resides in a song, songs among
Floating through the trail of thine, intertwined mine, meandering we
Songs among these will begin a journey to nowhere, in bliss
Trochaic, greenery, forestry, serene, motherland, a yesterday belongs, in tap dance
Along the way the must and the bohemian wind and unbridled they
Tap and tap on and tuned in, around a finely attuned may.
6:13 PM
8-28-2024
Written: February 19, 2024
____________________________________
The dam, in which
the tissue residue is present
has a saline ecosystem
despite the dryness
It is still preferable
to a carnival of wood and
burnt bryony bushes.
You could smell it.
from light-years afar
a tourniquet grasp of
saffron soil in a swooshing
flame is inscribed on the
plains armrest.
The grassland dips in
revealing slabs of an ancient utopia
the focal halftone of a
floating forehead features
a house of clovers motif
my torn lobes throb
beating as a breathing bruise,
hiding behind the partial eclipse
the integral aspects of
crimson maple.
I started overlapping
the threshold
to be buried as an
enigma in the depths of her soul
in the funnel, mists of ash, and shaking
sprinting into the intricacies of a
heavenly sanctuary
dubbed heart.
looking at the water
with less money than i had before
thinking about the latest person that was blessed with a lucky scratcher
i look down at my lunch
i look in the armrest compartment at my work badge
i look at the interior of my old lady faithful that i just had repaired
i think about my blessed mobility and what i can still do
then i look up and it has stopped raining and the skies are perfectly blue
suddenly i notice a waterfall that was not there before confidently winking its eye at me
the flow of the water is drawing inspiration from a now well rested sun
i guess i got it and this is some sort of approval gesture
maybe it is a Blessing From God for not only me as an unbeknownst reminder
whatever it is, i ask no questions and just roll with it
my lunch is hotter just like i like it and the orange cream soda is colder and just the right level of refreshing
all views are more thoroughly EnJoyed with New Meaning and with a New Fervor
Ables and not ables
Sharing the same armrest
At a movie theatre
But they are ignorant
To share all the rest
In their life matters
Sepia-tinted season is on
You are yellow and red
Crunching leaves in the lawn
Soft sun on bed
You are yellow and red
As I pick apples
Soft sun on bed
Squirrels under maples
As I pick apples
In red-and-gold forest
Squirrels under maples
A Robin in your armrest
In red-and-gold forest
Snowy mist in air
A Robin in your armrest
A petal in your hair
Snowy mist in air
Gondola waits in the lake
A petal in your hair
Rich flavour of the cake
Gondola waits in the lake
String of verdant hillsides
Rich flavour of the cake
Evening playing with tides
String of verdant hillsides
October nip in air
Evening playing with tides
Melancholy eyes in the chair
October nip in air
Crunching leaves in the lawn
Melancholy eyes in the chair
Sepia-tainted season is on
-------------------------------
October 3, 2019
Poet's October Pantoum Cash Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
As I ponder upon each breath done well
Without melancholy or deep sadness
Life's brush will paint my worn soul in pastel
Calm memories I have of its madness
My Autumn days I have found wonderful
Spent with the blood of my blood as they play
Music of their souls I find beautiful
I can listen to their sounds every day
In the midst of life, I'm thirsty for rest
To embrace the color of graying years
In my gardens of shaded realms armrest
I'll breathe each breath until it disappears
When I ponder on everything I've done
All of its sadness and gladness was fun
5/15/18 contest sponsor...Broken Wings
A Poem about Death Poetry Contest
In the Midst of Life
I live in the fall,
the dying nation between two worlds.
I am barefoot,
strapped to a catapult.
I toil where the dark storms brew.
I see you there,
like the armrest between the discomfort,
and the sadness.
And I see you standing staunchly,
as if the answers
are in the lightning you seek.
It is only me.
And I reside here,
where all lands die,
not where you can find comfort
in your lost lack of liberation.
I know you wish for color in the grey,
but I am ash in the pot you burned,
not the rainbow for which you yearned
Today
Today is a day that we will never forget,
Playing over in our minds like that favorite cassette!
Thoughts rippling like water, reflecting the sunlit sky,
While the image of playful birds, captures our eyes!
Today is a day that we will never forget,
Playing over in our minds like that favorite cassette!
Memories of the ones that we hold so dear,
Like a vision in the mirror that’s crystal clear!
Today is a day I pray we do our best,
To let the love of family become our armrest!
Written By: Sarita A. Milliner © 11/9/15
Lies Lies Lies
In the passengers seat
There's only an armrest between us
Why does it feel like a big vast sea
Your lies sink like a million fish hooks
You find small innocent victims,
Shred their insides
And leave them for bait
You lies could paint the titanic with stains
You have no meat
Your eyes no soul
If I jump in
Jog for miles and miles
All I'd find is open road
I used to be impressed
I wanted to be like you
Your best gift?
Giving me existence another attitude
congregate and anticipate please,
eliminate traces of old dirty fleas.
please don't confuse any old thoughts with these.
christmas trees smell better without presents.
pungent, pulpy stenches float up my nose,
duct-taped paper-clips make a nice rose,
miniature villages, cotton-ball snows,
oranges and pine needles smell good.
recycle orange peels which first were caressed,
while cookie crumbs gather underneath an armrest.
the winter holidays detest:
over-commercialized representations of Santa sporting Old Navy vests.
When People of Size Take to the Skies
By Elton Camp
When the extremely obese get onboard a plane
About their comfort and “rights” they complain
They forget that one ticket means only one seat
And with their seatmate for space can’t compete
Because the passenger who about normally trim
Shouldn’t have blobs of blubber pressed on him
Realize that man has paid for the use of a full seat
To have half taken by a tub of lard is sure no treat
Southwest Airlines has courage to do what’s needed
Requires fatsos to buy an extra seat if space exceeded
The rule is if the armrest between seats can’t be lowered
The “person of size” pays for two seats to get on board
Passengers who are of such enormous, abnormal girth
More trouble to the airlines than their business is worth
On a dreary day, the sky hangs, like layers of grey cotton wool
As I am curled up warm and toasty next to a roaring fire
Across the armrest, my old throw casually lays
Favorite magazines leisurely tossed upon the floor
I am now restless; too cold for a walk and feeling melancholy
I proffer distant stares through wide expanse of window
Slipping into a welcome daydream, my coffee mug in my hand
Imaginings take forms as I look past the frosty panes
Like magic, I deeply inhale streams of moist, clean, fresh air
As warm, mellow sunshine slowly invades the gloom
I see the brave rose bush awakening, clad in young leaves of green
Her precious, new buds peering from sockets upon trimmed branches
There goes a busy hummingbird collecting nectar as she sings
And in my mind at that moment, in pure delight, I glimpse, spring!
~*~
Note: For Francine Roberts's, "Bring On Spring" Contest
Men at work, bumper to bumper
tensile traffic, thick black bitumen.
Everything seems to last longer
then that grey granulated concrete
that extends from Bodega, Cali-
fornia to Savannah, Georgia.
Blacktop pot-fill smells like
the solid and searing work of roofers;
hardhat knuckle down workers,
men that stretch skyscraper towers,
or suspend themselves over
the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge.
If only this endless line of steel
on rubber wheels could steam roll
past the frustrated flashing lights
and pinstriped lattes honking horns.
If only these orange jump suites,
(sloth shaped men on armrest shovels,)
spent less time blathering like this poem,
we’d all be able to get to work.
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