Best Bedded Poems
Welcome to my ----- life
A beautifully broken aura
Unsettled flakes
The sound of yesterday
Shattered winter glass
Transcend to the unconscious mind
Frozen, dead, yet alive
Hell, escapes my future of eternal suffering
Tiny buttons of snowfall to my feet
Firewood burns endlessly,
The hairs of her soft skin rise like wheat
Shadows by hand flip the hourglass
The possibility of change takes --- need
She stands on the outside of my dreams
Looking in;
Quietly she summons the cold legion
Confused, trying to cleanse her soul
She wipes off old fingerprints
White glitter, forgotten notes
Spiritual spells enhanced in a quiet villa
Shadows of hands toss the glow
Daydreaming inside another dream
Falling flakes in hopes of peace
A warm bedded cabin sits at ease
Observing, breathing, mind settling
Swirling into an earthy feel
Another long downward drift
Shadows of hands set the tide
She awakens, sharing the stars
She mocks the sun, her eyes sparkle
Covered in snow - aging peacefully
She fibers to soothe her soul
She reeks, neither heaven nor hell
Temporary punishment, rattling thoughts
Captured in a transparent globe
Passing through a purgatory world
No walls, no in-between
Falling far from the echoes of life
Sacrificed by death before salvation
Transcending to the unconscious mind
Shattered winter glass
The sound of yesterday
Unsettled flakes
A beautifully broken aura
Depart from my ----- life
By: PD
If I told you, Donald, my love was true
Would you dance for me, glad to be my boo?
Or give a mean retort
Making a piggish snort
No Valentine's kisses from me to you
Melania is getting done with Trump
All he cares about is his nasty rump
The Epstein files don't lie
Knows he's guilty as pie
When his term ends, he'll be sent to the dump
If he tells me, I never wear a smile
It's because I think he's a pedophile
Ungodly as a papist
And a guilty rapist
Who knows what else is in the Epstein file
King Donald Trump thought Greenland he’d steal
Used threatening blunder in his spiel
This Valentines Day
Thought he’d have his way
Greenland said, “Up yours, Donald. No deal!”
Don Trumpty is totally impotent
He can't get it up for any event
It remains very slack
Can’t perform in the sack
On Viagra his bucks have all been spent!
Donald J. Trump held a Valentine's Ball
The world's dregs... he has invited them all
There was Kim Jong and Putin
Khamani and Rasputin
His ego boosted, he felt ten foot tall
No roses to give from the rose garden
He paved it with a black heart that's hardened
Installed gauche golden bling
and destroyed the East Wing
Criminals and crooks, he's given pardon
Melania said that they’d never part
And told him she loved him with all her heart
She held his waist tight
Squeezed with all her might
Poor Donald gasped and let out a fart
The President is standing in the buff
Posing nude and trying to strut his stuff
I guess he supposes
Wife wants sex not roses
But sadly, his old todger is too duff
Donald forgot it was Valentine's Day
Was too busy with targeting his prey
By grabby their tushy
His bare hands, so pushy
All the red roses sold out anyway
The FLOTUS put Donald in his place
In the bedroom he can’t touch first base
Cos he bedded Stormy D
Then Epstein files, oh dear me
The POTUS has got egg on his face
I'd be his Valentine if he'd hold still
Long enough for me to give him a pill
that would put him to sleep
And freeze the nasty creep
Putting him in a cryogenic chill
Cupid's arrows missed their mark, A collaboration of thoughts by
Jan Allison, Tania Kitchin, Tom Cunningham and Lin Lane
soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
"Snowflakes Melting before the Diadem"
Winter is coming
and what then?
the dreams frozen
snowflakes falling
we succomb
tongues out waiting
for manna,
pills swallowed
for the diadem
needles of pine
instead of thorns
bedded,
the sweet sleep
is coming,
slowly it cajoles
swiftly it comes
the folded corners
sheets tucked in
the safety barrs
raised, just so,
the corridors
their watching
starched stations
14 in all,
busy with purpose
soft shoe assassins
monitoring our nights,
our energy pulses,
just like veiled brides
more like blue nuns
we sing the
song of souls
like a poet overcome
like a poet finding
new love
bare feet we rise
from our shells
to speak to our
strange astral God
we are now
zephyr
contained as one
some of us
take our time
falling
we are
snowflakes
melting in the Sun
melting
on the lips and
brows of others
we are ghosts
holy and unholy
felt and spoken
some of us
take our time
falling
we sink
into the lips,
and tongues,
the brows
and skin of others
we are
snowflakes
melting
in the Sun
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
via lucis
“It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.
It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?”
pine. noun.
pine. verb.
stations.
My shoes lie prone like dogs waiting for a new adventure
Will it be a soft seashore shuffle?
A jaunt through the mall, all dusty with grime
A plunge to tippy-toe into mud and puddles
A climb up a tree or hike up mountain slopes
A skip through playgrounds with the kids
A ride up an escalator, what a relief!
All polished and shined, a first date in mind
A twirl around dance floor, avoiding soft toes
Laced up tightly and properly for business date, late
Or pounding the pavement for shopping walk jaunt
A stroll through the park on soft green grass, fresh mown.
Finally to relax off-feet, in lounge room, at last we're home,
Before shoes shed, get bedded in closet with friends,
Who share tales and tongue wags with the shodden down-trodden.
Seashore Sweepstakes
northwest rocky beaches
waves disguise cache of prizes ~
jellyfish parade
Clams and Gooey Ducks
hide in sandy blanket homes ~
no taste for chowder
hold your breath then dive
Abalone glued on rocks ~
opal sheen of shells
clusters deep purple
swinging from rocks of fool’s gold ~
Muscles hold strong
always on the move
Hermit Crabs – house on their backs ~
looks for vacancies
Oysters together
bedded down with family ~
maybe hiding pearls
Limpets with strong foot
clings to rocks and to fingers ~
teal and turquoise hats
trophies from tide pools
lucky tickets under stones ~
beach shore lotteries
It was quite a party at the old Spooks house,
to a spooktactular Samba they bobbed and bounced.
with skeletons banging their big ox-bone drums,
and the pumpkins all sang as the witches hummed.
Black cats did dine on tuna eyeball stew;
wicked Wilma brought her green bat-wing brew.
In the attic was held a wondrous broom race
and out back was a terrifying zombie maze.
Pirates and scarecrows arrived well dressed;
judges couldn’t decide whose costume was best.
Pumpkin ghouls climbed and played in the trees;
giant spiders spun silk and swung there with ease.
Greedy young goblins stuffed pockets with snacks
as children came by trick-or-treating with sacks.
The ghosts did a tango beneath a bright moon
and everyone knew it would all end too soon.
Just as the moon bid them all nighty-nite,
the sun it ascended giving vampires a fright.
Home they all flew to their dark coffin beds
‘cause you know, sunlight’s fatal to the undead.
Then the party disbanded with bellies all full
as among eerie nimbus pranced Taurus the bull.
Wilma flew off to the Witches Head nebula;
a scarecrow hitched a ride on the broom of Bella.
As little Spooks bedded down for the day,
hungry skeletons finished off the pumpkin flambé.
The bats all fluttered to their bat boxes, high
as grandpa Spook waved saying, “Next year, black tie!”
To celebrate his new glasses,
home a nearsighted dragon, did fly.
the doctor had truly, helped his sight.
A party he’d throw, full of savories;
on many delicacies, his friends would feed.
All night they’d party, till morning’s light.
His patio torches, he’d blow on to light;
water spots, he’d removed, from every glass.
He decided a menu, for his friends, to feed.
Off to the grocery, with his bags, he did fly;
oh, how he did savor,
his brand new, eyesight.
Dragon, in flight, was a curious sight;
with bags full of food, he did alight.
Dragon truly savored,
his shiny new eyeglasses.
but as turbulence hit, off they did fly;
causing him to drop his many bags of feed.
With no food, for his friends, upon which, to feed;
he dove, in an attempt, to restore his sight;
that nearsighted dragon in half-blind flight.
He looked drunk as the dickens, in broad daylight.
Though he recovered his glasses;
his sight, again, to savor.
Now he could see, to recover, his savory
menu and headed home, for his friends, to feed.
First he tied on his glasses,
as to not, lose his sight.
The coals on his grill, he simply blew, to light,
as his guests all arrived, in true dragon flight.
Hungry dragons in flight,
arrived, dined and savored,
the meal, he’d prepared by torch light.
On mushrooms and steak and potatoes they did feed;
oh, it was such a bright, festive sight
and they toasted him, with a great clinking of glasses.
Twenty dragons, still too full, to fly;
bedded down, in his cavern, by the morning light.
In dreams, they’d re-savor,
the spread; what a sight!
Dragon’s friends, just as planned, he truly did feed;
all thanks to his shiny new eyeglasses.
"Charms"
Just when you think
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart
a million leagues
into her
you dive, want or not
into her ocean
there the ensconced
bedded siren shell calls
like some holy font
pearls all opening
you dive, want or not
into her
cool and fathomless
treasures contained and hidden
waiting in her
mysterious
Pandora’s box
the deeper sea
in her
calls you into her charms
transfixed
want, or not
mesmerised
Just when you think
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart
a million leagues
into her
you dive, want or not
Just when you think
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart
(LadyLabyrinth/2023)
at Christmas, 2023
The Curse of the Dead Sea
Dark ghosts traveling through the chilled air mist
where rare rough rivers, eddied and revolved, in
twists around into a violent, furious funnel offshore,
as this turbulent salt sea of iniquity opens up its storied,
salted bowels with its turgid moving fluids drowning
into a space of predestined bedded death—for all who
unknowingly venture into the embrace of the Dead Sea.
For knoweth that Poseidon, the ancient god of the sea,
may not be there in time to spare thy life that be in the
fatal grip of this salted deadly destiny, and its jeopardy,
as it’s written in the “riddle of sands” that remain blowing
as this earthly desert speaks to thee, spiced by the coldest
of raindrops carried on winds held deep within, as dark
clouds escape with their droplets running down into the
mountain “waters of life” that feed and form an evil river
that pulsates through the deep veins of existence, as drums
inside heartbeats play to a harmonious harp filled with a
mystic music dancing to visions of a salted angel who lives
deep within the Dead Sea.
Falling throughout the depths of time in the history of this
ancient sea of sure death, are grains of sand and pure white
salt which hold misted gems that speak to each and every
human footprint, leaving an imprinted, indelible image true,
behind the frame left crowned in the deep well of a forlorn,
shimmering pond that presciently knoweth that this ancient
Dead Sea, with its “salt of the sand” shall explain to you,
in kind, of the dangers that lurketh within the waters of its
salted, deadly grip, if thou chooseth unwisely to venture in
knowingly or unknowingly.
For Poseidon shall not be there in this “modern age” to
saveth thee and thy immortal soul!
Amen.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – December 16, 2018
(Narrative)
On the bed, my ginger cat settles
onto a pile of clean laundry, dryer warm
Feline steady stare, resolute
a strategy of possession
she relaxes the way prayer soothes
"Off!" I command. My cat an unwelcome bedded guest.
she whines, "Surely, he's bluffing!"
solidified
empowered
swollen in the pride of "I'm not moving!"
meows spewed like an anthem of resistance
I lift her from the pile,
my underwear dangles from cat claws
like cheap tinsel on a tree
she exits, her short lived reign
sulks into howls of whining
till dinner softens her rebuff
till wherever curiosity and comfort take her,
anew
My hope of co-habitation:
to calm the little woes of daily chores
to reduce cat prestige from shedded hair
to shrink feline non-compliance to a
manageable scale
Our social contract - a trade off
to reaffirm my status
to maintain the charade of "boss"
an unsteady footing
in the crushed aspiration of rule
Poem composed February 7/2022
A walk through the meadow seems in order
The sun is peaking through some wispy cloud,
Coreopsis is in full bloom along the border
While verbena and cosmos are standing proud.
I make my way through the overgrown path
Pushing aside the wild carrot and floss flower,
Knowing I’ll have beggar’s lice as an aftermath
Causing my nosy neighbor to snicker and glower.
It’s a fine, fine day; butterflies are everywhere
And the mockingbird’s are tweetering melodies
As I get closer to the tree line a-way over there
Where the squirrels will jump between the trees.
I do not expect to see deer since I’m rather late
And they are generally feeding in early morn,
So they’ll have bedded down in hidden shade
They have long weaned their early spring born.
Surprisingly, I see an opossum trundling along
Three or four young’uns clinging to her back.
Picking a bouquet of flowers, I break into song,
And hear scuttling noises, I’ve disturbed a pack
Of nesting quail, fairly close, and off to my right,
Streaking in a flurry their white underbellies flay
I locate them just in time to see them take flight.
I’ll get on home to vase my wildflower bouquet.
Written August 6, 2022
The year was 1832 when she slipped out the pub back door
It was stormy and cold as she walked out far across the English Moor
She stood at the edge of a craggy cliff as waves slammed rocks below
Her hooded cape flapped wildly as the wind began to blow
The fury of the rain and wind pummeled her tiny frame
She wondered if they'd miss her or even knew her name
For she was just a tavern maid who sometimes shared her bed
But what she earned just barely left enough to keep her fed
The sailers stopped at the Rose and Crown for whiskey, vittles and more
Then slung their bags and left the pub to sail for distant shores
Although it did not show just yet, she feared she was with child
And some of them who'd bedded her, made her feel defiled
She saw no future for herself nor means to raise a child
Then softly cried forgive me lord and bid the world goodby
With red and purple sunset
melting into blackened sky
The hummingbirds have bedded down
and shortly so shall I
As crickets sing their lullaby
into a dream I fall
The things of night begin to stir
at moonlight's beck and call
~
deep in the woodlands
surrounded by pine and birch
live deer; buck and doe
~
where creeks trickle soft
bedded with stones and sand, frogs
and crawdads exist
~
under moss and fern
hide reptiles, spiders, insects
who don’t come from dens
~
amid the chatter
of crickets and forest sounds
come howls of the night
~
woodsy welcoming
sings the animals who play
graceful and peaceful
~