Best Armrest Poems
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
Written: February 19, 2024
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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.
Written: May 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
1st place contest winner
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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.
To all my Poetic Family, I would like to start a new word game It's very easy You pick a word
Define it and sign your name ( see examples below ) I will then with each author's permission
compile a PoetrySoup dictionary Anybody up to it ALWAYS...HG
Paperboy --- Origami --- HG
Armrest --- Sling --- HG
Poetry --- Word Songs --- Karen O'leary
Cackle Fruit --- Hen Egg ---John Moses Freeman * see his Comment Below
Brazier --- Boob Gear --- DAS-J( Dane Ann )
Broken leg --- Putting down three and carrying one --- Also equals new math--Sara Kedrick
Poetess Extraordinaire --- Extraordinary Creative Lady --- Linda-Marie Bariana
Poetic --- A little bug on a writer --- Sue Mason
Life Class --- Dress down, no gown --- Brian Strand
Senoir Moment --- No sap, need nap --- Brian Strand
Cool --- Kool now Koolio --- Lovely --- James Fraser
Satin Doll --- "Candy Sweet --- Alias linda Marie --- Linda Maria Bariana
Beatnik --- Long Locks, no Socks --- Brian Strand
Consultant --- Freelance Faience --- Brian Strand
Old Age --- Same Chat, Off Pat --- Brian Strand
Teenage --- Back Chat Off Pat --- Brian Strand
Autobiography --- Timeline, All Mine --- Brian Strand
Google ---Quick Look, Word Book ---Brian Strand
Errant ---Deniably Naughty --- Dane Ann
Ferocious --- Fierce Folly ---Dane Ann Continue to PART 2
Next day after the funeral was a celebration of life
at Mom's/Grandma's for a grand supper with memories ripe
afterwards eldest suggested we take some memento's
going through her things I felt like I was pilfering,
To think that 17 years ago when my parents moved in
the interior of the house was going to be quite a challenge
painting the walls and getting rid of the uglies you could say
the house slowly evolving into a cozy country cottage,
Her beautiful taste showed in every room and corner
every detail was just right and in perfect order
always mentioned she should've been an interior decorator
she would smile as she would straighten her armrest cover,
Gazing around I looked in my Mom's bedroom
partial to a little wooden bench seat over in the corner
the bench serving my Mom well during her life and last days
with a picture painted on it reminding me of both Mom and Dad,
Of a beautiful white lighthouse surrounded by clouds and seagulls
my parents both born and raised on Long Island with its ocean swells
both loving the beaches and boats in the New York harbor
but in particular the lighthouses they grew quite fond of,
The lighthouse guiding both boats and people in the dark
my down to earth parents knew this with all their hearts
the lighthouse representing Jesus their leader
on the sea of glass I hope to one day again see them,
But for now I'm blessed bringing this memento home
I will use it and keep it till I die and pass it on then
hopefully to my two sons who will keep it in the family
a wooden bench seat with a lighthouse with many fond memories.
7-22-17
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.
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
Fighting for that last chocolate chip cookie
Arguing over the doll you know is yours
Fighting for the front seat in the van
Arguing over who got more frosting on their cake.
Fighting for the allowance neither deserve but they give anyway
Arguing over who started it and who will finish it
Fighting over who saw that cute bag first and who will keep it
Arguing to keep the bag of chocolate she says was actually her’s
Fighting for the armrest in the car
Arguing with “Did not!” and “Did too!”
Fighting over the attention from the grownups.
Arguing over who is really older
Fighting over the CD player she says she has no idea where it went
Arguing and Fighting will never end but the love remains the same
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.
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
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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
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
Space travel in ordinary time,
The woman tries to concentrate on her book
on change and the power of positive thinking.
She is not succeeding because
Her seatbelt is cutting off her circulation,
and the guy with the headphones has taken hostage
of their shared armrest.
A man snores across the aisle
surpassing the volume of a beached whale in labor,
A two-year-old three rows back gives
a war cry when his Elmo DVD dies,
The woman stares at a woman of massive girth
sipping her coffee seated two rows ahead,
Breathe in, Breathe out,
She closes her eyes and journeys inward,
Breathe in, Breathe out,
The plane dips and rises in rollercoaster fashion,
Breathe in, Breathe out,
Turbulence, she hears from somewhere,
She opens her eyes and looks out the window,
Twilight blue sky,
Cotton candy pink, grey,purple monolithic clouds
look like an alien city.
Breathe in, Breath out,
Blue and yellow lightening flashes between the clouds,
Thunder crackles in the distance,
The plane bops up and down like a boat on rough sea,
The woman can taste her stomach acid,
The fat woman seated two rows up spills her coffee,
Turbulence, a voices say, Stay calm-
The lights goes out,
The snorer wakes up startled and begins the swear,
The plane becomes a victim a gravity, G-force
Falling
Lunch trays, laptops and cups go flying,
The two year old begins to cry,
Picking up speed
Falling
Turbulence, a voices says again, Stay calm-
Outside the window the clouds are rising fast,
Falling
The voice is drowned out by passenger screams
as oxygen masks fall to their laps
Breathe in, Breathe out,
Her body tenses and prepares for impact
The arm-rest stealer grabs the woman's hand,
Falling and tumbling through space,
Breathe in, Breathe out,
The woman prays to an unknown God
as the plane makes its rapid descent-
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
I am almost embarrassed to admit
that spread out along the armrest
of a lounge chair, a fox fur
complete with head and feet
has found a refuge in our home.
Rescued from an op shop,
it seems relaxed on its elevated bed
and sleeps with its glass eyes open,
snout closed and missing its teeth.
It has become a novel oddity giving
an accent to the decor of the room.
Considered vermin in this country,
the fox is hunted and treated as a pest.
A ten dollar bounty is still paid
for each scalp whether fresh, frozen
or dried. Vulnerable native species
are no match for its cunning
and killer instinct. Its presence
in our home could be excused
as a symbol of the righteous fight to rid
ourselves of this villian,
the stuffed remains a trophy to mark
the measure of our meager success
in culling it from the continent.
But I somehow feel for the life
that once filled this gutted creature
and all that it was in the span
of its despised existence.
Here it has its final rest not as vermin
but more a victim sacrificed on fashions
alter, its first ancestors brought
to these shores by wealthy landowners
to satisfy their lust for the hunt.
This animal was no willing immigrant
but meant to be bloodsport for a few
and ripped apart by dogs.
I find myself in two minds, a part of me
wanting to erase all evidence of our
more primitive instincts to adorn
human life with what has been taken
from other species. Yet I see how
some of its perfection has transcended life
and the furriers art and lays here
in this house, magnificent, acknowledged
and admired, instead of being carted off,
despised or pitied, at the bottom
of a bin.