Best Attics Poems
One Toy Soldier
Little toy soldiers are all put away
Training is over for this time of day.
Where do these little boys go now to play?
Away from their home to die in the fray.
Little toy weapons are no longer there
But boxed in attics by mothers with care--
Where keepsakes still hold a lock of his hair--
While rockets and missles challenge his fare.
Little toy bad guys and little toy good
Haze in the distance when misunderstood.
Where fall the lilies on long crates of wood
And each gave their all--as good soldiers should...
Little toy soldiers are coming back home...
Mothers are weeping, laments all alone
Where flags lie folded--the gift of Shalom...
As the long box is lowered...'neath the loam
One little toy soldier is placed on the top
Remembering All--so that None be Forgot.
deborah burch©
4/14/2012
Insane
All of us
The two of us
The ménage of us
The rain drops fall inside our heads
Just the two of us
Crazy deluded creatures
crawling in the attics of darkness
Breathing, gasping, hold on, hold tight
The air becomes a precious bond
Little one dances in the wind
Precious dreams in white padded rooms
Adam and Eve and serpent roam
The halls of the diabolical
Wondering where I have been?
I am all of you
Mirrors on the wall
Can you not all see?
We are all me and you
Insane inside mindless heads
Random mutterings
Broken bottles
Gods stolen promises
Contracts broken in the night
Insane we are
All of us
From Adam to Dawn
Holding hands for better days
Dying to be uninsane
Wishing raindrops go up not down
ATEN shall again shower us
With sunny days
Dedicated to someone here who told me once, “I am just…………. Well I say you are just a brilliant poet”
The Pipe
(irrigation)
I am a city girl,
I have never,
until now…
Ridden a horse across the desert,
held a tarantula for longer than…
five minutes,
used an incubator to raise chickens,
helped keep track of puppies (twice),
cut tails and sewed them like material.
keep fish in a pond, raised just to eat,
and my garden is not organic,
it is simply blessed.
I bought, fixed and "care for"...,
my Own John Deere…Riding Tractor.
This is not a boast.
I have crawled under houses,
into attics, painted barns and chased a PIG!
The rooster would not quit crowing.
The altogether too close neighbor did the same.
Oh…
and the rain was coming down
in the middle of the front room,
inside.
While on the outside…
I, was knee-deep in water.
Not from above, although he lent a hand.
The corner of the yard. That mysterious place.
Behind a tree, a stump and two bushes.
It came from there, like the flood of Noah.
Now a gaping hole, where the river came to visit.
Fast and slow, in and out everywhere.
The middle of the night…
The top and I, do battle.
Cold and merciless… I shake, freezing.
I will win. Stop the gush, in a rush.
I am a city girl…
But I am a warrior.
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 what hides in tomorrow.
Our eagerness of youth knew no boundaries,
as we prepared for love’s journey to start.
Though our minds were innocent and naive,
you and I have forever shared one heart.
Watching the small crowds of people declaring their rights
Guns on their belts in their hands yelling at Governors and pressing at policemen
Spitting at mask wearers, licking boxes and pointless fights
Indifferent to the sufferings of neighbors, family and friends
Unmoved by the tears and fatigue of nurses and medical teams
Please remember in years gone by the names who have lived and died
Suffering times, cruelty and fears— remember humanity’s most atrocious years
The Holocaust, Ann Frank, attacks on the disabled, the old
Hiding under wallboards and floorboards, in attics, in the woods,
Sent to Concentration camps, Russian work camps, to death in Siberian Ice
Mandela in Pollsmorr Prison, smallpox, the Indian’s Trail of Tears,
Refugee children now during our times from fear of the others its over 3 years
In contagious prisons torn from their families—hardship misery and pain
Yelling for our rights over the attempts to keep us well to help our neighbors and friends
As people drink beer and watch videos and complain and complain
How dare we protect our grandparents from this illness from death
Listening to the anger and threats — its fear I know its money, greed and attempt to blame
Presidential desire for power and pathological indifference to others all back again
But we must remember, we must, the horror on earth when mankind goes insane
I write of fragments in my life
things written in diaries for attics
of memories- now just bones and dust
for those lost loves that still shatter my heart
of the people who sailed in gliding ships and left
and those who turned against me and left me broken
I am house shopping
with the required Buyer's Agent,
also a fairly tolerant friend of mine.
She likes to drive
although not gifted with any sense of direction,
until we hurriedly arrive,
then she beelines into the ubiquitously requisite lock box
as if by smell.
Meanwhile
I visit current occupants,
the trees first and foremost,
then bushes
flowers,
occasionally, to my grateful surprise,
an entire garden,
or even just one vegetable,
a tomato plant,
a humble gang of shaded herbs.
I ask them how it is here
in their home.
I like to taste their soil
for signs of pregnancy
but who knows what contaminants
might fester here.
And my real estate agent,
although a friend,
finds it unseemly
for me to put my mouth around
what I probably won't buy.
She, too soon,
coaxes me away from my greet and meets
with shade-givers
and grasses,
the edible and ornamental neighbors
of the "big house,"
to explore the darkness of plumbing
and electrical systems,
attics and basements,
kitchens and bathrooms...
Her list of boring things to look at
and too often smell
in a bad way
feels endless
in comparison to too brief introductions
outside,
speaking with,
listening for,
hoping and faithing and loving with
any signs of life
among these large majority of property historians,
co-investors,
cooperative care-givers and receivers.
Eventually,
it becomes our time to aimlessly wander around
in search of yet another lock box
on our life For Sale list.
I say goodbye to the trees
and shrubs,
my occasional edible
and more popular ornamental hosts,
far too soon
to ever learn
if they would choose me
or not
to become with them.
I feel like I do
on election nights
when winners and losers are announced
by statistical projection
before votes are actually counted
from all us co-investors;
and long before registered voters
have listened to trees
still standing in our yards,
on our farms,
in our fertile forests,
to learn their quieter discernment
of which candidates produce more healthy cooperative outcomes
and which more toxic competitions
within these diversities
of Earth's wealthy nature.
These are the spaces I confide
These are the narrow crevices
These are the places I reside
These are the secure refuges
Upstairs attics with small windows
The quiet corners where I go
The hidden chambers no one knows
Downstairs cellars through secret doors
There I have my room for dreaming
Room to create and postulate
Pose questions and probe for meaning
Riddles and rhymes to contemplate
In there the world does not dictate
And there I have less room for hate.
Suicide Watch
Time meter swings from a rope in the attics and antics of my mind
barbed in chronicles tentacles of raven swallows ingesting ticking
seconds away from under the duvet of spaced out stretches spell
bound in dyslexic dysfunction in grammar distorted the syntax all
black depicting semantic delusion of clock work’s terminal peace
Deep down and under scratched surfaces of doom awaits another
measure of a different frame mounted shattered fragmentation
evolving from void into the tentative tether awakenings in memories
of a future revisited of a kinder place swinging happily meandering
when the pastures of pleasure and passion mix jubilant exaltation
I am a yo-yo a Ying Yang a fool and a wise man jester and clown
casting dazzling shadows on the mosaic of life through a lens like
a bird on a wire full flight ahead hanging on with a claw’s lacerated
tears and the tempo’s rhythm pulsing heart-breaking truths in the
fallacy of certainty of composure unity and unchanging fortification
Through depression I have received growth enrichment clarity in
regards of the jungle of meaning and live to tell the story of what
reality checks balances juggles foreboding trepidation into calm
composition back and beyond a force forthright and forthwith in
the spur of the moment eternal and fleeting and that's who I am
Sui generis in Ego-cidal watch positioned and roped in by the Self
23rd November 1959 - 19th September 2016
What better way to spend a rainy afternoon in May,
Than with Grandma in her attic where precious memories lay.
This was her treasure trove, cherished things dear to her heart,
About which she reminisced with us, delightful tales to impart!
She cuddled her yellowed wedding gown with a far-away look in her eye,
And told of Grandpa's tender love for her with a wistful sigh.
From a trunk she took a photo of them taken on their wedding day.
Even from the misty past, deep and abiding love it did portray.
A faded photograph showed Grandpa, so very handsome and grand,
In the uniform of his country, that he volunteered to defend.
She showed us Grandpa's army uniform, pride swelled within her breast.
She shed a tear holding the flag, presented when he was laid to rest.
She fondled a gold pocket watch that she gave him as a bride.
It ran for nigh on sixty years, mysteriously stopping when he died.
With trembling lips she kissed a golden pendant and had this to say,
"It was given to me by your Grandpa on our blissful wedding day."
She played a waltz on the old Victrola and whirled about the room.
Her eyes shone so brightly and her face assumed a youthful bloom.
Grandma is united with Grandpa now, they've ended their earthly quest.
With their love and traditions, our family was truly, truly blessed!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Constance's "I Am Sending You A Gift Of Poetry, Dear Heart" Contest-Sep 10
Inspired by the poem "Old Trunk" written by Constance - A Rambling Poet
In old trunks and attics are stored many precious memories!
I'm sending you this, my gift of poetry, dear heart, from my trove of poems.
by Mark Miller © 06/15/2014
Signs stained white written by twilight's blacken Knight,
Raining silent sights depressants drown the conscience might-
Feeling venereal waves sullen air on standing skin shivers
Ridding stallions frailty of fear scorn folly appears,
Warning scent of scowl substance -
Seeking in cause and effect applies not in this lullaby,
For the mind belongs to it's own song and dance-
Willow trees weep beside the empty fractal houses,
An ethos fills body's soul with a depraved dreadful chorus-
In jostle of moments lined faster a hurried escape from felt hidden disaster,
An alter of one espousing blight of blithely blister-
Sympathetic one of other removes contents in empty pockets,
Seeking aloft allusions in solutions left lied ring-let-
Daemonic cutting deciphered experimentally-
Winding winded two halves distract obvious facts completely,
Attics into Usher's velvet windows asunder lightening's thunder,
Horror's glory retreats toward sisters end read story
Lightening revealing THE frighting fury hour-
Days of three seal homes sickened manner strayed lost honor,
Violins play chimes of melody clocks delay frayed fractured decay-
Answered doors store stealth terror of sores
Whispers in absent scenery closures presents history-
Sickle red sorrow drowned disease roams hallways demented path of jester become,
Pallor color companions eclipses my natures being to be-
Capacity particulars a ghastly gloom
Thus is our dissolution for reservations inside our Mansion of Doom-?
IS THAT A TRIVIAL TRIFLE OR A RIFLE?
Weightless
Weightless while watching ripples row their way across a wading pool
A pool that portended peace
A peaceful pool in the coolness of a kiss in springtime
A scene of serenity
Weightless
Thinking
Unblinking
Sinking into a pool of my own
A pool of thought
Caught somewhere between actuality and a playground in Poughkeepsie
And the thought occurs to me
No longer a blur to me
But crystal clear
As I consider the word “trivia” as in those trivia games people play
One might choose to say that I have a dispute with “Trivial Pursuit”
Well for just a moment or two let’s examine, explore, expose and exhume if you will
The meaning of the word “trivia”
Now I don’t own a dictionary, nor does anyone nearby
But as far as I can tell
The root word of “trivia” is trivial
As in unimportant, inconsequential, insignificant, and most notably
Trifling
And so I’m rifling through the attics and dungeons of my medulla oblongata
And I gotta say, in reference to these trivial games
No matter how convivial the participants are
I’m not spending hours being asked frivolous questions
And hearing petty answers
Answers that may be wrong or right
And thus to be edified and educated by the inconsequential
Meaning, in essence, of no consequence to anyone
At anytime
In any place
But that’s just my opinion
Coming from someone who comes dangerously close to being labeled a fool
Weightless
Weightless while watching water in a wading pool
Floating
And noting the trivial and trifling
© 2012…copyright…PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
IS THAT A TRIFLE OR A RIFLE?
waiting
Weightless
weight less than a pound
Weightless while watching ripples row their way across a wading pool
A pool that portended peace
A peaceful pool in the coolness of a kiss in springtime
A scene of serenity
Weightless
Thinking
Unblinking
Sinking into a pool of my own
A pool of thought
Caught somewhere between actuality and a playground in Poughkeepsie
And the thought occurs to me
No longer a blur to me
But crystal clear
As I consider the word “trivia” as in those trivia games people play
One might choose to say that I have a dispute with “Trivial Pursuit”
Well for just a moment or two let’s examine, explore, expose and exhume if you will
The meaning of the word “trivia”
Now I don’t own a dictionary, nor does anyone nearby
But as far as I can tell
The root word of “trivia” is trivial
As in unimportant, inconsequential, insignificant, and most notably
Trifling
And so I’m rifling through the attics and dungeons of my medulla oblongata
And I gotta say, in reference to these trivial games
No matter how convivial the participants are
I’m not spending hours being asked frivolous questions
And hearing petty answers
Answers that may be wrong or right
And thus to be edified and educated by the inconsequential
Meaning, in essence, of no consequence to anyone
At anytime
In any place
But that’s just my opinion
Coming from someone who comes dangerously close to being labeled a fool
Weightless
Weightless while watching water in a wading pool
Floating
And noting the trivial and trifling
© 2012…copyright…PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
We have amassed so much
We can do nothing with it
But keep it in attics for the fire
Junk after junk of our life
We have bought all we can become
To sit and stare across piles
Like it was a mirror telling our eyes
There is so much in us to spill out
But we have not yet learned how to be angry
We cannot learn
Until we need to be uncivilize
Until we are no longer dependent
On little bottles of prescriptions
To fence the barbarian in.
I have seen the dump burning
This world is not short of fuel for fire.
It is just us being so protective
Of what nobody will want tomorrow.
Darkest heart a ruddy black
Dried blood and static
Blackest of black eyes roll in empty space
The darkest night in deepest oblivion
Of volcanic hell frozen in place
As millenniums fell, a black so deep
It rivals your darkest heart,
A heart of obsidian black seeps
Fragile as obsidian a clouded frosted glass
No fire of passion or hate can crack
Forged in the earth's deepest depth so long ago
It died with your words sliced sharpest of all
Darkest Obsidian Night carved the wickedest
Blade, hearing the call, in the deepest of space ?
An obsidian blade the darkest of all
A ruddy black heart of hearts
Dead eyes, stoney deity, static
Blackest of black lost it vacant vacuums attics
The darkest night in the deepest hours
Lost in homes where shadows roam
Of volcanic hell frozen
In a place where falling stars showers
As millenniums to come, starlight
across my immortal face
A black so deep it rivals your soul…
Obsidian Obscura engines burn violently race…