Best Armchairs Poems
The eucalyptus sting that burns my nose
And eyes is not enough to mask the tide,
Of eloquent free speech and purple prose,
Delivered from armchairs set side by side.
Although they are so far, they sound so close,
For sounds like ghosts traverse double wide.
From sounds within and noise without my room,
I toss and turn and find I cannot hide,
And from below the stench of death’s perfume,
From some wild thing (or tame) that lately died,
With pier and beam and axles for a tomb,
The lucky beast escaped the double wide!
Michael F Lewis
04/01/09
Haiku/Tanka/Haiku for Linda-Marie's contest.
Autumn has arrived
the gentle years are calling
love, life at harvest.
Friends like old armchairs
come to coffee the morning
glide in the porch swing
and we reminisce for hours;
pastel roses without thorns.
Come with me my love,
take my hand; we'll go walking
west, into the sun.
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
For all who suffer Arthritic pain
they know when it’s going to rain
aches in joints, won’t go away
just got to get through another day
We all have it to some degree
I know you feel it more than me
I try to support you when I can
and do some jobs, but I’m just a man
Can’t do the wash the way you like
I think it’s only in your psych
blacks and whites don’t wash together
hang things out, but watch the weather
That can fade, hang inside out
that will need three pegs no doubt
hang by the top, to keep it straight
coat hanger there, to take the weight
cooking needs a whole new plan
I used to cook as a single man
but eggs and bacon wont suit her needs
something fancy, full of seeds
Steak Dianne, that sounds real nice
Worcester sauce and oven fries
thickened cream and parsley fine
a dash of Brandy, or maybe wine
I really wish that I could do it
people say there’s nothing to it
if that’s what she wants, then all I say
you can make it, when your better eh.
Housekeeping is where I really shine
vacuum, dusting, it all looks fine
don’t move the armchairs, don’t look behind
‘cause if you do, then dust you’ll find
Then into the bathroom, that’s a lovely place
scrub the grout and tiles, till you can see your face
all the glass and mirrors, must be bright and clean
and finish with the toilet bowl, polished to a sparkling sheen.
I proudly say “I’m Finished” (it’s taken me 2 days)
and now comes the inspection, to learn the error of my ways
that’s nice she says, its saved me time, and I’m feeling better too
and the rain may clear tomorrow, so thanks a lot to you.
(she’s nice)
The Search to Find the Edge of the Ice
They say moss doesn't gather on a stone rolling, in motion,
And even wise algae gets left in the wake,
Of a proud ship, foresail dipped, rising upon an ocean,
Yet what of the movement of cold, blued, polar ice,
Where humanity has no known device,
That can truly assess each crevasse like a human eye,
Not wafting past, digitising from way up high,
But the eye picking out subtle changes,
The sense of touch, of feeling crumbling, matters much,
And no satellite can be quite right as the human nose,
Smelling fauna, or the stench of rotting, dead plants or fish,
For ice recedes its movement gathers stones,
But it reveals things, that satellites alone,
Can never bring to assess, without assumption in that process,
And so a legend of arctic exploration abandons long treks,
Or climbing mountains, and not due to getting older,
Indeed using boats for a landlubber is getting bolder,
Taking stock of the after shock,
The Northwest passage laid out, like a virgin on a wedding night,
Internally sobbing for the state our world is in,
For there was no ice, not even enough for a consoling gin,
The long march of humanity's future discontent,
Requires assessment, a global response to a new war cry,
Come Europe, Come China, Come India, Come America,
Come hear the cry of the Canadian northwest,
Of the fears of Greenland becoming a new forest,
Come Australasia, Russia too, come all countries, much to do,
For we must rise to assess the circumstance of the ice regress,
To prevent surprise, loss of our world's bequest,
And pushing forward the advance guard of this new challenge,
Is Sir David's team, the polar ocean phalanx,
Not sat around at home in comfy armchairs,
But doing something, going somewhere, to show we care,
Seeking to find and monitor and report back,
Crucial knowledge that currently we lack,
For how can we plan to avoid our worlds future sorrows,
If we do not make an effort to find out for our tomorrow,
Where exactly is the edge of the ice, which today no device,
Can show in a way that all of human kind can know,
Does the ice recede or simply ebb and flow,
Stand up, man up, pay up, support them,
Lets see them depart and sail,
To find this century’s holy grail,
The search to find ‘The Edge of the Ice’.
@Andrew Carnegie, Challenged in Wiltshire, Jan 12th 2017.
What Rainbows Are:
A rainbow is hideous.
They obscure the view
of the dark void of men.
There is no joy;only agony upon pain.
Your impressions are thwarted
by these colors.
You are lost on your own path.
Virtue and wisdom flaccid ideals
for the weak and the daft,
whom been called sage.
All fail you.
Your family, groups,
and in a word, society.
These rainbows hide this.
The rainbow is diabolic.
The most incite-full of verses.
The best of rhymes.
The greatest of men.
The heroes of the times.
They do not succeed,
nor try from their armchairs.
Their failure is complete.
False notions of hope,
birthed from within,
parried by men
of wretchedness wickedness; and evil.
They give knights allowances -
missives and permissions,
for hollow excuses.
Superficial platitudes!
The anointed are mere spectators.
With quips and their empty polemics.
Thus you see. You know,
a rainbow is hideous.
The Moral decline of Norway
What I find when reading the comment pages
in a leading Norwegian newspaper, is the absence
of charity and the arrogance of entitlement,
they will not be sullied by people fleeing famine
and war, they have themselves to blame why
should we get up from our armchairs and offer help?
It was not always thus, Norway was a small country
with a big heart and they believed in equality.
Then oil was found near the coast and everything
changed and not for the better, it is about getting
rich quickly and those who makes it are extolled
and the losers, forgotten. The rich have always been
egoistic – that is why they are rich- but this immoral
has infected the working class people who suddenly
get the idea that a workers union is not needed. and
I ask myself why do we do what is detrimental for our
well being and long term future
Memory of the Aged
Blurring mist creating a transcendent skull,
Gradually dissipating into thin air by glimmer of the sun,
Aged plucked toothed corn-row
Of horny gum smile, broadening,
Grim lips fall flat,
To blab like ignorant spoil infants,
Greetings dug up and hung in the shoulder of space,
Ensnared walking sticks tucked near ancient monument
armchairs,
While ghosts apparitions lounge in breezy atmosphere.
I'd like to believe
Peace is a natural state
That war is foreign
But I see war after war
And brother slaying brother
Old sacrifice young
Our youth gone before their day
Then I want to cry
For thought that they gain nothing
Are lost through their innocence
What a wonder youth
How pliable and pristine
They want but to shine
While all the burnt-out old men
Pull the strings from their armchairs
Outlandishness!
forsake me promptly
ink and exegesis
no reminiscence of yesteryear
unexpectedness
not all epistles
armchairs
philharmonic
autumn leaf looming
omnisiouly close
throughout drudgery
utterly dehydrated
me, my pencils
lack of inspiration
exsiccated
tears stream on face
For all anguish!
upheaval giving back voice
rivers dig deeper and deeper
mysterious redundancy
1ST Place Contest Winner
Written: February 20, 2022
A Brian Strand Vers Libre Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
ANGRY MAN
I have no problem with drunks, druggies, husbands who beat their wives,
Asinine youths shouting too loudly, parents who neglect or spoil their children.
These guys make me feel good because I know it is not me,
And I feel superior : I am better than that.
I hate the guys in wheelchairs who slow me down as I walk to work;
Old ladies on crosswalks bug me, stumbling ahead of me, so I must sidestep;
Beggars on the bridge are infuriating, panhandling for small change.
The wheelies remind me that I have legs
But I waste my time sitting in armchairs watching football;
The oldies tell me that I too will be a stumbler one day
And that I am wasting my youthful energy doing pointless activities.
Beggars I really hate, for it could surely be me, easily - but for the grace of God.
I am spending my cash on trinkets, burgers, movies, and I can’t even enjoy them
Because of thinking of these guys : they make me mad as hell.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Susan Burch’s Contest “Show Me the Anger”
use the power of your Pride:
pull the Tear back inside
more than 20,000 leagues under your sea
in a safe Virginity.
However, you will have to pull also the reflected landscape
(source of vitamins)
and to transform the Green Clouds
into a Sunday Afternoon
with old comfortable armchairs
for the jury:
dont let them see the Fury
act naturally
drink coffee from the same Black Universe
create a family,
a Real one
where nobody is guilty
and nobody is innocent
and every time two fools collide
pull the Tear back inside!
There was Turkey and sausage meat, gammon ham too,
Four pigs in blankets for me, you and you
I did Yorkshire puddings and parsnips well glazed
Sprouts, roast potatoes: I’m thus far unfazed…
But then there was broccoli, cauli and peas
I said to the carrots, “There’s no room for these.”
I plonked them on top… with no room for finesse
The cranberry stuffing did not look impressed
It got relegated onto a side plate
With Yorkshire puds that I’d had to relocate
The gravy went onto the main plate with care
It took quite some skill to keep it on there
Of course I got jibes about plates that don’t fit
“Are we to eat it… or climb over it?”
But all of the leftovers didn’t amount
To something that next year would cause a re-count
Strangely, the Christmas pud wasn’t required
An afternoon walk, it seemed, wasn’t desired
Everyone slumped into armchairs and couches
The custard remained in its unopened pouches
But sometimes a simple man must be ‘that guy’
When dishes and saucepans are piled up high
So, with people dozing I just had to think
“Somebody here has to empty the sink.”
So, rinsing and stacking and running the ‘Hot’
I gave the washing up liquid a shot
I’m washing up after the meal of my life
When suddenly there with a towel… is my wife
She said, “That was perfect, it tasted so good,
You cooked Christmas dinner just as I once could.”
And soon I too dozed in the chair that’s my place
It’s likely that I had a smile on my face
They are everywhere
mostly inner cities
to help the poor
We need though more
many many more soup kitchens
in rich neighborhood's
in all places
to feed the morally bankrupt
to feed the narcissists
to feed the racists
to feed the Zionists
to feed the billionaires
to feed the ignorant in their armchairs
to feed the arms dealers
to feed the bible thumpers
to feed the hate, hides under false heart
For they all need to be fed
a hot bowl, a delicious bowl
of humanity, compassion and empathy
oh what a bowl of soup that would be
I remember red curtains
and red, round
Loony Tunes logo.
Red couch and armchairs.
Beets on my plate
and two dark butterflies
nestled in the corner of the room.
How excited and scared I was
when I though they were a bat.
Balcony door got open,
the curtains moved
and they flew away.
I remember red spots
on their fluttering wings.
Yet, somehow Sunday
is still a yellow day.
Boring,
depressing,
pressuring.
Armchair Warriors
They sit in their high-backed armchairs behind their ominous desks.
Fighting wars and hiding behind their outraged words.
Words that condemn the actions of history.
They criticize and condemn,
with harsh words that judge
Their poisonous pens send daggers straight to the heart.
They gather all the strength they can muster.
Somehow their feet never get dirty,
and they never break a sweat!
They place nooses around the necks of those that are so tired.
Oh, the wars that they have fought,
and the battles they think they’ve won.
Injustices they have intervened,
From the comforts of their chairs.
No need to make it dirty.
No need to be in trenches!
The armchairs keep them in their comfort,
and safe from all that hell!
Choose carefully this day…
Which battle you will fight.
Choose the ones that you can win!
Choose your words with great precision.
Your poison to implode,
as you pull back the bow….
Perhaps a footstool to make it easier and rest your feet.
The arm-chair warriors surround us now.
Replacing those that fight
It doesn’t get so messy.
Their blood no longer spills, it’s much easier you see.
Just send your money and your poison!
Grace Daub June 23, 2021