You open early morning
to sunlight in a chamber
past the threshold.
I’ve yet to know
what the day may bring
late summer
a calling to live
live again.
The cat roams
the room
after I give it
water and food.
Someone sleeps
in the front room.
I’ve closed you
for now. I must
awaken to what
lies ahead.
The voice of someone
I’ve known calls
then another and another
a chorus of memories—
I’ve never forgotten.
Bedroom door
I’ve closed you
but dreams linger.
The branch still in bloom
waves in the wind
and a sparrow flutters
by the window
and yes
a threshold to embrace
but I can never close
passages to my many lives.
The clouds have silver linings
They do indeed, I saw it
A gust of wind shut the bedroom door
Nor me neither the cat
Moved up – the wind was blowing
A little rain passed by
The elm, the linden and the oak
Stretched their branches to me
As if to say be quiet
We are here, rely on us
I couldn’t think a word.
The children gathered around
the crackling fireplace as
Rumple Stein opened his
heavy, leather- bound book.
His voice dropped to a low,
raspy whisper that made the
shadows on the wall seem to
stretch and dance.
"Deep within the Whispering
Woods," he began, "the old
witches brew potions made
of forgotten nightmares."
He leaned forward, his eyes
gleaming in the firelight as
the wind howled outside the
window.
"They command slimy green
goblins that creep into
bedrooms to steal the
laughter of sleeping boys
and girls."
A floorboard creaked in the
hallway, making the children
jump and clutch their
blankets tight.
"But the worst myth of all,"
Rumple Stein hissed, "is the
faceless monster that hides
right under your bed."
He pointed a long, crooked
finger at the youngest boy,
whose eyes were wide with
fright.
"It waits until the room goes
completely black, listening to
the sound of your heartbeat."
With a sudden, loud SLAM of
his book, he smiled and
whispered, "Now, blow out
the candle and go to sleep."
While out walking late last night
wondered who it was I saw
slinking by your bedroom window
lurking 'round your back door
when I shouted 'Who goes there?”
they ran like hell didn't tarry
those I'd seen could well have been any
peeping Tom Dick and Harry
I was fourteen.
August smog pressed through the mesh of my bedroom window.
Through the grimy grid, I watched them in the backyard.
“Sign the papers.”
He was smoking a Belmont.
The smoke left his mouth
and hung between them.
He flicked the cigarette toward the house.
I watched the ember burn and die.
"Did Dean aid Dianna? Ed did"
When Charles toward Camelia slid
"Won't lovers revolt now"
When one strays anyhow
"Mad? am I madam?" as she him rid.
It’s a ritual of living
Daily chores and evening drink
Coincide with your believing
As if you don’t have to think
Repetition doubts the sense
For the safety it provides
Past affects the present tense
Changes time with all its tides
Blurs our faces on the screen
And the sound comes unheard
I repeat 'what did you mean'
But you cannot hear a word
Then I type, but you can’t see
Cause your glasses lie downstairs
In the bedroom you are free
Free at last, from any care..
To date the snorthog
has only been seen
late at night in the bedroom
disturbing me and my dreams
first he hogs the bedclothes
then snorts up a storm
while I lie awake
counting sheep
trying to keep warm
but before I become
a grumbly old grouch
there is yet one solution
have him sleep on the couch
A place that is supposed to make you feel safe.
A sanctuary, I guess you could call it,
And for most people, it is.
But not for me.
No, for me, it is a place where,
I feel trapped.
Not trapped as in I can’t leave,
Trapped, as in a place I can leave,
But for some reason, I can’t.
It is where all the worst parts of me can run free
My anxiety, sadness, and depression
My anxiety, that paces back and forth in front of me,
Worrying about something, I know is irrational to be worrying about.
My sadness, sitting in a ball in the corner of the room, crying,
About the things and the people that we miss and know we can’t get back.
And then there is my depression…
Lying cocooned under my blankets, feeling numb about the fact that we have lost, the motivation that we once had to get up, go out and interact with the people we love.
That we hold so close to our heart.
But here all of me is.
Trapped in my bedroom
again.
.
i could not leave'er
no
not
not
whilst her princess
in her night frock
rest'd 'gainst
thuh huge
vindowz
tick'lin mine think
cauze'n mine breathe'z
rapid
az thuh spring'z morn'nin
sun
paint'd hern
no
not i
,)
Bedroom Wall
Hidden in
the small space in
my bedroom wall are a
bit flared skirts (witches skirts only), fairy shoes, bottles of
elf arm hairs, alien dried poop, urine vials too, and
lutes of
egg whites rotting.
Glowing in her rich heart, hear it go bump,
As she dreams of him, in her throat, a soft lump.
As stars engage hopscotch, in misty, sparkling skies
A cold, barren room, gives birth to her warm, earthy sighs.
10/4/2024
I sleep in each day until *noon,
My *mum says I live on the moon,
If I think a day’s good *deed,
Is to *eye a Facebook feed,
Than to *peep outside of my room.
Darting eyes, a naked flame,
Expectations, yet unnamed,
Strewn across a bedroom floor,
In-between, red satin sheets,
Rekindled heat, yearns once more,
Excitement, reaches higher,
Static sets the night on fire.
Dark mischievous bedroom eyes
Are laden with lust and laden with lies.
They slowly cause my pulse to rise
And always do me hypnotize.
They exude passion’s lusty flame,
The flame that sears, the flame that maims,
While masking their sinful secretive lies,
Behind a seductive sexual prize.
Should I stay, or should I leave?
I muse while my heart rides on my sleeve.
Such eyes have caused the death of innocence.
And, as for love, they have no relevance.
So, I back away from those sinful eyes,
So laden with lust, so laden with lies,
Because bedroom eyes are pools too deep,
And always do dark secrets keep.
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