Best Bedrooms Poems
the sun
low in the sky
yearns for a leap into night
as shadows squeeze their way into bedrooms
like shapeless dragons
for children
cocooned to an early bed
staging thoughts like puppet plays
on a wall terrain
of mossy caverns or whispering vines
that never merge dreams smoothly
when children imagine the huff and puff of shadows
like creatures swimming in circles
overlapping at a patchwork distance
before the painted black of night
quiets the pull of imagination
in the candy cane bend of sleep
I walk past empty bedrooms that once held my boys
The beds made so perfect, the absence of noise
Books there on the book shelf and not upon the floor
No ear-splitting music, no slamming the door
It’s eerily quiet now these once busy dens
These bunkers of bustle with brothers and friends
They’re off to college now the closets are clean
They only come home now on days in between
The weeks of the study the homework and toil
With loads of their laundry all dirty with soil
These nice empty bedrooms so tidy and neat
Just aren’t the same in their pristine retreat
As when the sneakers are thrown in a corner
The fridge it is drained like an unwilling donor
The noise and the smell of exercised teens
Showing off muscles with biceps and spleens
Banging a cupboard while toasting some bread
At three in the morning before heading to bed
Now some dorm at the coast, in some far away place
Or corner of frat-house who’s presence they grace
Our bedrooms are empty the rooms nice and quiet
The sheets all in place and the fridge on a diet
But once in a while it all comes to life
Things they are back to the brotherly strife
Rooms not so tidy and sharp as a knife
As when we’re alone…just me and my wife
David Kettler
I open the door
to one of our guest bedrooms
and find her nearly asleep . . .
she who long ago
tucked me into bed each night
when I was such a small child.
Tonight it is I
who lean down to kiss the face
of a precious little girl.
The Straw Man stopped by today
Listen to what he had to say
before blowing away
after this exposé
Aliens don’t do crop circles
or carve out landing strips
Only non-scarecrows have such ability
Ground crews do the Trojan work,
using string, planks of wood,
and sketchy blueprints
Heavy-duty equipment
is often required for the latter,
but not spaceships
As usual Ufologists and cults
are only too happy to jump on board
using the crappiest video recordings
as grainy evidence,
all enhanced by voiceovers
from know-all scarecrows that orbit the edges
of human gullibility and vulnerability —
ripe to be swayed either way
As for the heavens,
they never designed clarity on earth,
though they may provide
soul-searching clouds
that slowly unravel across the sky,
diluting everything
— even the water —
with bubbles of hope,
only to burst on the tines of pitchforks
misused by twisted hands
Such monsters
skulk in bedrooms and haylofts
after families in denial bail them out
They rarely take rain checks
unless kept in check
Though with hindsight,
it’s very poor foresight
to tempt them back downstairs
with a weapon as a birthday present
Many poets too lose rhyme and reason,
expressing reality as an
amputated tuning fork
whose stumps prevent them
ever facing the music
Others sense the blunt frequency
of straw beneath their feet
that will never soak up all the blood
And after spilling his guts,
the Straw Man added:
There’s still enough of me left
to return and break the back
of any new AI mirages.
By David Kavanagh
NOT FROM CHURCH PEWS
Never cause of falls.. God helps us stand
about to stumble.. extends his hand.
Aware God made us.. out of wet clay
Christ left footprints ..to show us God’s way.
Never pain or burden’s.. our way toss
Satan’s deep abyss.. God helps us across.
Life’s heavy yoke .. it’s weight he’ll share
Loss of loved one’s.. he'll calm our despair.
Don’t blame God for death.. Satan birthed grief
Only God’s Kingdom ..will bring Earth relief.
When God’s Will’s done here.. no more will die
"Thief” resurrected in Paradise..Christ didn't lie.
Adam door opened.. led to men’s death
God will give dead.. His life giving breath.
Those asleep in earth’s..”death bedrooms”
On Earth again stand …free of their tombs.
God’s Kingdom, it’s King.. bring total release
Prince of Peace all wars ..on earth make cease.
EDEN restored..is Bible’s Good News
Heaven not “Paradise “..taught from church pews.
Barbara Barry-Nishanian
March 15,2018
copyright
L.A. moonbathing
Soup convention is haunted
Ghost prowls through bedrooms
Scripca leads the search party
Sheet falls down, Ruben is found
For Michael’s “Tanka me a Dream” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
*Actually did have a crazy dream about a Soup Convention in Los Angeles last year.
Barbara Gorelick, Iolanda Scripca, Karen O’Leary and I were “moonbathing” on a
resort balcony (like Morticia Adams would). We heard about a ghost that was going
through Soup members’ rooms and Iolanda bravely led the charge to find the
ghost. Barbara and I joined her, but Karen chose to keep moonbathing. When I
posted a blog on the dream, Ruben Ortellao said it was he who had been the
ghost. It was fun reliving this crazy dream.
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013
what happens to those words we say
that speak in silence when we pray?
do they remain inside our head
to die with us once we are dead?
or do they echo off the walls
of bedrooms, churches, schools and halls
to fall upon the silent ground
and lie unheard and lost 'til found?
or do they find those cracks of light
that shine despite the darkest night
and reach out to that world above
to talk to those we miss and love?
My Christmas Baby Doll
Fast down the staircase, eight of us in all,
like Santa’s reindeer, fly to our big tree
the very second that our parents call
us from our bedrooms. Oh, the gifts we see!
The glitter of the tinsel can’t compare
to our excitement as we run to snatch
our presents up! Then we begin to tear
the wrapping off, and then at last I catch
a glimpse of my best present on the floor.
A box rectangular, it makes me guess
it has to be the gift I will adore.
Pink-cheeked and sweet, it’s Thumbelina! Yes!
I wind a knob. Her small head moves. How real
my baby is, and what great joy I feel!
Written Dec. 21, 2016 for The Christmas Day Contest of Alexis Y.
See picture of the vintage 1964 doll above.
People in my school have names for someone like me.
Freak, crazy, weirdo, a spawn by the devil's decree.
I took note of every malicious word they ever spoke,
knowing that before long they'd no longer make me a joke.
None of them knew how truthful were their mocking words.
They had no clue I could spread my wings to fly among the birds,
with ravens that caw out for blood at the stroke of each midnight.
I'd fill their haunting dreams with images of daunting fright.
A snip of dried herbs, a pinch of fungal root, boiled in fat of fowl,
a concoction for me to savor, secreted to me by my mother, an owl.
Eyes that see through bloodshot color, they would see them too
when the full moon was high and the sky turned dark cobalt blue.
No help will they receive from a scream or gyrations to be free.
They soon will know they should never have made a mockery of me.
The time is near, my brew is cooled, now it's my time to have fun.
Tonight their dreams will be nightmares, a gift from the evil one.
With their eyes closed, they will envision they are being chased
by hundreds of bloodshot eyes, the likes of which they've never faced.
Black robes adorned, scepter of wormwood waved from my hand.
Eyes... wild bloodshot eyes, will seek vengeance at my command.
Fog advances to the bedrooms of those who sleep in peace.
My adrenaline is pumping, just a few more minutes until release.
A snarl of satisfaction I feel curled upon my blood red lips.
You won't belittle me again with your taunting nocuous quips.
NOW! I gave the order for the eyes to creep into their dreams
But my heart is beating too fast. This was not part of my schemes.
I can't see a bloody thing. What's happened to the spell I cast?
How long will this blindness torture me? How long must it last?
A truant officer was sent to see what had become of the freak.
Through a window he saw many ravens, all with bloodied beak.
No body was discovered. All that remained was a robe of black
and a note scratched upon the floor. "Too late to take it back."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
December 26th, 2015
Deep and Dark Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Thats not my Elephant! it just followed me home.
I tried to shake it off, but shes like a dog with a bone.
So i made her feel welcome with balloons and confetti,
filled my pool for a bath and fed her spaghetti.
I even gave her a name and christened her Ella,
we became the best of friends and lived happily together.
Until one day a man from the council came round,
"your neighbours are complaining of an Elephant type sound."
"You can search high and low, theres no Elephant in my house."
He began in the basement, but all he found was a mouse.
He then prowled through the bedrooms,
even the cupboard under the stairs.
"Do you know how big Elephants are, you won`t find one there."
Then he walked through the garden, he`d never seen such a sight.
"Theres an Elephant in your shed, ill have to read you the bill of rights."
Then they took Ella away and she was dumped in the zoo,
where snotty nosed 2nd graders call her names and shout Boo!
That was my Elephant, but not anymore.
I still visit sometimes and we laugh like before.
Depression is a Nomad wanderer, searching for a hope to break
In that place of heartless, smoke-filled rot where even laughter proves to fake.
The Darkness is a bold intruder, a critique of one's existence,
And hides in places, corners of gloom, an outcast from soul's resistance.
In the Café of Apathy, the face of dejection reappears,
Taking up cudgel in bedrooms and bars, traveling through streets of tears.
****This poem was written for all the wonderful women out there and my appreciation of their lovely existence --- half the reason my pen becomes ablaze is to adore the superior of the genders. Everyday almost I get at least a memorable smile from a woman while commuting; this fills my soul....****
To look into the eyes of lovely itself,
and dream a thousand days of her smile,
and call the millenium barren without her,
tall, plush walk.....
strides in the naked night....
Moons waiting to delight, the feathered
silk of her waxen wings;
a million suns could not melt....
But her hero upon the hill,
and make sweet surrender her arms;
and wanting her touch to love,
in a midnight grove,
stroll the lush orchard,
with flowers in her hand.....
To music at home,
dancing into bedrooms....
and dreamy little love lands....
For all the mysteries of a woman
in her hand,
(she held)
Drum sets take up all the space here.
They have filled several rooms.
Big sets, little sets, sparkly sets, red and brown sets.
Drum sets for everyone!
Filling up closets, bedrooms and the garage.
If we get another one, we will have to put it in the bathtub.
There is no more floor space for them.
Drum sets have a huge presence.
They are not easily ignored even when they are silent.
My husband used to play them.
He says he plays them when I am not here.
When I am here, I spend a lot of time
Trying not to trip over them, trying not to notice
There is no more floor space.
I cannot complain, though, for every wall here
Is saturated with my paintings. I have paintings.
He has drum sets. We are both artistic.
Fuchsia-flecked, rhinestone-rimmed cowboy hat
Embroidered boots to match
Silver spurs—slick, sharp, shimmering
Brand new, but battered beneath
Travelled far, walking the jagged beat
Where have I been
Where am I now
Have you seen my mind
Floating in sugary bliss
From the Journey’s Inn—
A haven for friends, old and new
Veterans of domestic arms races
Comparing wounds from the endless chase
For elusive, blood-drenched euclace
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Mr. Depression enters
A silver slash of sorrow
Sick with his own lore
“Fancy meeting you,” he croons—cold
“Looks like you need a bitter brew to hold”
Warm whiskey winds down the throat’s hallowed hall
Rattling the rusted lock on memory’s mausoleum wall
Have you seen me before
You might recall—last week, perhaps
Grumpy, frumpy, meek collapse
My garden of grace paved over with grit
Wilted and wasted in drought’s cruel spit
Crawling through viper pits and dens of bad deeds
I felt relief
Quenching parched desire
With earned fire in a glass
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Two stools to sit upon
Lost boy and riot girl
Pink Lady, Velvet Gentleman
Again and again
Bottoms up
Chin chin
They laugh at the tribute band
Silly show on a slanted stage
Crooked teeth bared
Yellowed with age
Chipped by rage
Filed by fate
Two AM—wobbling down the jagged street
Holding up the night’s loose end
Keeping everyone awake
Lonely bones vibrating
With resonating lust
Urban lamps flicker
Like my wine-coloured iris
And what are dreams
When fiction splits at the seams
Weaving tapestry from fragments
Truth in forward motion
Stitching reality together
Like Casper drifting down wishing wells
Pleading, plundered, pitiful
Unseen by those untouched by sorrow
But tonight
With my fuchsia hat
And bombastic laugh
Overshadowing grief
Once poured on tap
I grab it by the gnarled neck
Shake loose threads of regret
Into useful shapes
In bedrooms with velvet duvets
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
We stitch our sorrow
Into velvet fire
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin