Best Attic Poems

In A Darkened Attic Room

In attic room, one window tightly shut,
Dwells broken heart hidden from future pain.
Bare as a savage brute's dark, empty hut-
Condemned to no hope, no future, no gain.

Where rests such perilous fear darkness reigns;-
Shattered dreams give rise to dark illusions.
Hope rejected brings...

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They're treasures to me, so I don't mind.
My Aunt Ellie in tow, right behind.
I climb the ladder, lift wooden door.
There are piles of stuff strewn the floor.

She recites the story about Aunt Jean.
How she cursed her antique sewing machine.
Under material, maybe old drapes?
My cousin's old...

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The lights have been turned on
in the attic
Someone has flipped the switch
exposing
cobwebs, caster oil, crutches
newsprint and cheap china
Which I'm hesitant to touch
least it falls apart in my hands or
cracks like the blue Robin eggs
I once tried to store in my pocket.

I know I should begin...

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Antiques in the attic,
amazing oil paintings
are coated with thick dust.
Albums of photographs,
await my teary eyes. 
Auntie has passed away
and I must clear her house. 

Inspired by Pleiades A contest

10th August 2016...

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There’s a fluttering in my attic;
something’s alive up there.
The cat is getting frantic
and I dread going up the stairs.

I hope that it’s a bird,
rather than a bat;
unless I have misheard,
oh, I’d better get a hat.

I recall my sister’s hair,
when a bat flew into it;
it truly...

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At age ten, I found a trunk in the attic
full of leather-bound books and tied up comics.
Luckily they weren't dusty; I'm asthmatic,
dad scored them cheap base on street economics
but my recall’s somewhat melodramatic.
But for years, leery of Russian atomics
I would hide in the attic; my...

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I've tried to hear both sides out,
to determine what is right;
Two opposite opinions in my head,
just living for the fight.

I seem to always be trapped in the middle,
and bear the wounds of the war that's waged;
Like visiting two lions in the zoo,
then thrown into their...

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Marching through my yard
heard whispers from the house of the dead
veiling in my attic
at the night
alone, yet with all my might,
hoping to watch the daylight
soon tucked myself on the bed 
wondering the stories never told by uncle Fred
there I listen something again
something is watching me...

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Journals, diaries, and old love letters, 
recollections from a long ago me,
Pulled form dusty bins hidden in attics,
springing into life through fond memory.

Read through misty eyes, those words of passion, 
of desires, worries, joy, death, and sorrow,
Expressing our lust and undying love 
yearning to face...

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Washing his memories he hangs each to dry

He folds them promptly so they gather no wrinkles

Takes pride in his work and packs each thought with care

And when needed they eagerly come out of the attic

Doesn't bother with lingering smells on each garment

He tries each on...

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Open aired and pastel pillared, vaulting the ceiling; 
This bye to Paradise; & illuminating vision:)
Stand in-violate, in golden tones, in orange hues
in glowing aqua, do you colour my view,
The mark of Heavens promise, on earth:)
Expanding in an instant; you beam of Gods mirth.
A schism In...

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*To the tune of "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen

I've heard there is a secret floor
That's locked behind your attic door.
But you don't really want to show me, do you?
You keep her there,
A ghost, a fiend -
An angry beast that taunts unseen. 
The crazy wife who wants...

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Midnight's hollow streets... 
Rolls Royce crushes cigarette butts as sinful, cold drizzle of animalistic desire
lurks on shadowy corners of locked buildings, for a price... negotiable..
Balconies bear yesterday's broken beads as a jazz musician is soundly asleep.
So much hard numbness in those easy to open bottles...
It...

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You get to a point where 
you can’t read them anymore
and consider yourself a grown-up.

But it wasn’t until I was fifty-two 
that I threw them away. 

How long could they hide
in a high school brief case
next to a box of sweaters 
in the attic?

So…into the...

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Bent fingers trace embroidered leaves
on satin and long lacy sleeves.
Blush roses, twenty-six she counts--
A French word she can't now pronounce.

She blows dust from old envelopes
tied with blue ribbons and her hopes.
The letters penned by her true mate.
Over his name, she... hesitates.

A trunk in attic soon...

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