Best Chest Of Drawers Poems
Adopted animals love their humans;
show it in many ways.
The tiniest pet,
revels in the harmony of its time,
with family.
Dinky was a special hamster;
she lived a year beyond the normal life span.
I carried her around in my pocket and she loved the ride.
Her head, peeking out, evoked curious comments
from all who glimpsed her.
She searched for me, when I was at school;
her knack for escaping the cage,
kept me searching for her in the afternoons.
I often found her, in my chest of drawers.
Of course, I found it odd,
but hamsters are four-legged, Houdini’s…
Dinky was the best.
One cold winter night, as I lay in slumber,
That tiny traveler made her way from,
one end of the house, to my bedroom.
I lay there, on that frosty eve,
dreaming that I was outside in the rain;
the chilling raindrops, dancing upon my arm.
In a moment of lucidity,
Reality hit; those raindrops were tiny paws!
I reached, grasped and in the shimmering moonlit rays,
I stared into the eyes of my new bed buddy.
A twitchy nose said it all…
”I found you!”
I moved her cage close by my bedside;
future escapes faded into history.
and the story goes like this . . .
I walk up the dusty, dark staircase that had been my favorite place,
playing with my dolls, make believe, dreaming of meeting a prince;
Wanting to grow up, but that was many years ago, many heartbreaks ago,
my reason today, Grandma has left this world and all in the attic is mine.
The door has not been opened in years, it creaks and groans as I push,
I stand in the doorway, finding the courage to enter the dampness;
The sun filters in through a small window, dust drifts, cobwebs lace the corners,
the atmosphere silent, like death, echoing of the past as I look about.
No one else wants any of this, they call it junk, only I know the treasures,
passing by an old lamp, a stroller, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers, a bed;
Portraits of ancestors long forgotten, dusty old things, treasures from the past,
a peacefulness comes over me but I am searching for something special.
And there it is pushed into a corner, an antique chest, long forgotten,
it holds the vintage clothing, jewelry, and writings of the child that was me;
Things I had treasured playing dress up, pretending, making up stories,
kneeling, my hand touches the ornate surface brushing away dust.
Slowly, I open the lid, peeking inside, everything is there as I had left it,,
my eyes fill with tears, memories swirling in my head of that little girl;
Dressed up in Grandma's old clothes, writing stories on the attic room floor,
stories that will become poems for I have found my lost treasure chest.
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July 21, 2013
Poetry/Narrative/Let me tell you a story
Copyright Protected, ID 07-494-069-21
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
Submitted to Premier contest, Your Best Poem,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Judged 07/2013
Second Place
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Submitted to the Standard contest, Any Old Poem #4,
sponsor, Skat,
Third Place
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Submitted to the Standard contest, Treasure Chest,
Anthony Slausen,
Fourth Place
Life is down to no-frills necessities
in a room with the chest of drawers,
double bed and television.
The walker stands in the corner
waiting to be used to get to the dining room,
the social activity three times a day.
The nurse's aide, with her lilting Haitian accent,
comes around to check during the day:
time for meds, channel change? a walk
down the hall? a glass of juice?
You know that you mustn’t drive a car.
The house is gone, and so are its furnishings,
let's face it, life is over.
Grandchildren come to visit,
sighs of relief when it's over.
Dreams of the past when life was real
occupy time until dinner and bed.
Cat-as-trophe
A purrrfect little kitten became a purrrfect cat,
With milk all round her whiskers and cobwebs as her hat.
She rubs against your jumper, just to say hello,
And leaves behind a hairy mess on you and your best throw.
Excitedly she’ll spring up high, swiping at a fly,
Just missing your best teacup as Bonnie whizzes by;
Finally she comes to rest upon the kitchen door,
Safely out of reach of baby rug rat on the floor.
For hours she’ll sleep upon the door, her paws flopped either side,
Oblivious to all that’s past, ‘since the time she closed her eyes.
She didn’t hear the doorbell or greet your guests with glee,
She didn’t even notice when the rug rat ate his tea.
With babe asleep and food prepared you turn to make a cuppa,
Unaware that as you do, well, Bonnie’s pinched your supper.
Like a bolt of lightning she flashed across your plate,
Clearing it in one foul swoop then leaving in disgrace.
She looks so sweet, you can’t be cross even if you tried,
It’s funny just to watch her try to get her prize outside.
Unable to negotiate the cat flap in the door,
She drags her ill begotten gains beneath your chest of drawers.
It isn’t long before a dreadful smell wafts in the air,
Bonnie’s proudly spraying all your furniture with flare;
Angrily you lift the cat to take her straight outside -
But as you do you realise that Bonnie’s really Clyde.
My hair is frizzy and very black.
I found it in my chest of drawers.
Also a bunch grows in my crack.
And if you like it, it's all yours.
For Rick Parise's "A Bad Hair Day" contest
I'm a shopping cart,
a free form squeaker of the
truth.
I'm a black top parking lot
on the surface of a dream.
I'm a thin veneer cross the
chest of drawers that hides
your dirty magazines.
I'm the crust on summer's dusk.
The ring around the collar grit.
The decay of cowboy comics;
A 10 cent glider's path.
The harbinger of new math.
A washing machine's tumble.
The gray skies ominous rumble.
A bad haircut on spring break.
The Vietnam war,
the Superbowl,
The lounge singer in the
businessman's maw.
I'm stupid,
a friggin mess,
farting and tap dancing the
Gettysburg address.
Standing on a ridge a sight can be seen. The kettles were choosing a queen. Bouquets were bought for the waters within. For waters will want wonderful and wonderful it was. The chosen kettle was a marvel. Complete with glowing sides and clear too. Captivating when boiling as the bubbles could be seen. But when cleaning was required it was time for the little wire brush to trot over to the kettle. Insert itself then move around to clear the debris. WOW. Look how it sparkles. Amazing isn't it?
But a bored baboon can only be made to smile through sipping a cup of banana juice, kissing trees, and playing ping pong with the dainty pig who was also rather fed up at this moment in time as the apples were not falling from the trees and that was a travesty.
Oh go and play a game of noughts and crosses in a shoe then. And definitely play monopoly in a chest of drawers. It is irrelevant the scores given to twenty over sized marbles in a washing machine. Scores should only ever be awarded to skittles. And skittles skate so when the pond is icy always put skating boots on them.
To outsmart a heron with a bunch of melons and some keys is to kiss over ninety frogs at a ball. But attending a ball has to be the most single important factor on a calendar card for a pineapple whose hair stood out from the rest in lovely green spikes. But lemons never wear such head dresses for they prefer triangular tiaras and triangular tiaras are neither tepid training turtle-neck tulips and neither are they tigers talking to timbers. Timber-frames are most thwarted at the tango but woods can waltz most admirably. Positioned palettes pirouetting.
And never forget to keep an eye on the Pyrex dish for Pyrex dishes can be filled with a vast array of produce and arrays of produce are mainly understood to be as vibrant as a colourful garden windmill. Spinning in a breeze then. Good. Creamy coleslaw calming carrots creatively creating canopies. Pea wisdom in a skirt skimming the stones into the lake from the shore holding the umbrella and a picnic basket.
WOW
Curtain chop on a tight rope.
Z Wunderpus photogenicus Z
At thirty six flies zooming on a lawn to 18 garlands of flowers in a florist.
I am young and travelling
my life is unraveling
as a teenager I dreamed
this day would happen
not on the safe side I dwell
as the danger unfolds
forward I propel
I coming out of my shell
extreme is not the word
crazy sounds to absurd
this beats the life of a nerd
this excel the master degree of a jock
“daddy is going to buy you a mocking bird”
who am I kidding
my parents were never there
just mama the only one
who ever cared
it is all I ever have
a personality flaw
my heart in a chest of drawers
this how I extend towards an inconvenient cause
ain’t no love lost
ain’t no sunshine when its on
Beauty's Beast.
Well I'm looking but I don't see.
A little here a little there
I even looked under the stair.
In the wardrobes and chest of drawers.
I even scrutinised the floors
but look I did and could not find
am I stupid, am I blind.
You say you left it by my chair.
Well I'm sorry to say it's just not there.
I'm flabbergasted to say the least
but I think your wrong Beauty,
there is no Beast.
isn't it? kent fog burger faces driving in a motorised saucepan.
A nine foot rod is better than a three foot stick and a three foot stick outsmarts any microfiber jewel encrusted steel bow when attempting to cast over to catch, kill and consume. Oh pearly pink mushrooms and cheeses, must you sway so and must the writings writhe upon the wind and ground to create such chaotic interruptions and vibrational discomfort. Well it is most hampering really. Hampering to effortless sweeps through the air with lines through the atom less sky. This is no automatic controlled playlist. And nor is it a bacon sandwich jumping out of the pan and leaving the camping stove at high speed metronome roundabout weaves. Like tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Oh go ring a bell then. Rather irksome. I however will spin and cast and spin around on the ground. After waiting several hours it will then be pull then gutted then head chopped after a short collision with a little rock to break the breath of life. Exciting expunging experience explosive explicative extract even eight eels. And eels are not wheels nor turning on tubular tree pipes whose drone knowledge spans the scented breezes of the triangle lake. At dusk. Variant variable vary. And a whisky and cream pie with a fragrant jooos is neither a dilapidated delicatessen nor a dragging depopulation curve on a Swiss cheese map of syrup shreds. Beam then break then alight the cable cars with ten trotting ponies, fifteen mugs of beer, a fortune cookie with nice long legs, an elongated pile of flamingos weighing eighty two thousand kilos and a small tie pin grinning. Now go up to the apex over there and admire the view with that crew. Then set up the tent on the highest peak and bake a culinary delight. Of over eight courses. Heavenly and divine and rather outstanding too. Cloud clings climbing cups. Z precautionary Z at nine moomins to eleven left handed chest of drawers. Xxxxx Z
I haven’t slept in seven days it’s true
but just be glad it’s me not you
you see, it’s not that I can’t sleep
I’m just so tired and feel so weak
that I’m afraid my blood will leak
Though much courage have I sought
to overcome the gloom and what the darkness wrought
Seven nights ago in bed I lay
clouds climbed high at close of day
bringing the dark on this cold eve
I had nothing more to give
but on this night, the dark brought fear
that I could do naught but drink beer
You may not believe this but you see
a certain peculiar anomaly
presented itself suspiciously
reluctantly my lids did lift
and woke up in foggy haze,
to see my bedroom door ablaze
I closed my eyes for just a sec
and when I opened them the door was back
my mind was master and did not yield
but, lo and behold, my dreams revealed
a weird anomaly had surely beckoned
as something ominous just happened
I slept an hour in a lull,
until I felt ole nature’s call,
so hurried off the bed I got
the clock I heard chimed three right on the dot
and soon right then to my chagrin,
the room began to slowly spin!
The chest of drawers showed a gloom
and shining red the mirrored-moon
were on the wrong side of the dim-lit room.
pictures on the wall hung low
and who they showed, I did not know
TO BE CONTINUED PART#2
While hiking in the woods.
I found a tired old shack.
It was hidden, covered with weeds.
I found an opening in the back.
While on my hands and knees,
I saw it lying on the floor.
Was covered with dust and webs,
under a rickety chest of drawers.
A chain of flaking rusty metal.
Colored a crude muddy brown.
Probably worth nothing to anyone,
nor to any shop downtown.
A beaten wooden frame on the wall,
the picture inside, faded and smelled.
A young girl, clothes ragged and torn.
Around her neck, the chain I now held.
Inside the chest of drawers,
was a fragile moth-eaten book.
It was a diary by the young girl,
in the picture she so proudly took.
He was poor and toiled hard.
Her father worked the land.
The rusty old chain, a gift from him.
To her, it was regal and grand.
She cherished that old chain.
She wore it smiling with pride.
Since, as a child, she received it,
until old age, on the day she died.
Her family never got it.
They could never understand.
They removed the chain from her,
for it was not regal and grande.
The metal worth nothing,
she wore it from young till old.
To her, the contents of its cheap ore.
Was worth more than any gold.
R. S. Morris
One day when the sun seemed hotter than hell,
at lunch, pre-teen Goldibear started to yell.
"Who's fixing my sandwich, who's warming my soup?
and ice cream! I want a really big scoop."
This day, no one heard her cries for service
by twelve-thirty or so, Goldi got nervous.
I am hungry, alone; I need some food;
someone has left me in a monster mood.
She tried unlocking the door to her room
blinded eyes saw a note, NEVER PRESUME.
What's the meaning of this strange bafflement?
The door wouldn't budge, her patience was spent.
She screamed, she cursed, and went to the shutters;
they too were shut tight, her heart now in flutters.
Then she heard a dog barking, BE CIVIL.
Could this be a clue, puppy-talk drivel?
She suddenly recalled a set of keys
in her chest of drawers. Thinking OH PLEASE!
"I'll bet one of them fits my door or the window."
You guessed it, the keys? locked in her bureau.
Starting to cry, remembering Grandma Gray's
good advice: "In a pinch, a wise man prays. "
Beside her bed, getting down on her knees,
Goldi asked for help; God showed her the keys.
He told her of kindness, mercy and grace;
these are three keys which open up space
when we cannot see our own selfish mood.
Bedroom door opened, Mom's there with some food,
saying, "Dad must fix your door, it gets stuck."
Light blazed through the window, signing good luck.
Goldibear hugged her mom with one more prayer
of help for her temper which needs repair.
October 4, 2021
Contest Name: This or That, Vol 7
Hysterical Blindness
sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Oh, I recall the home of my childhood,
and those beautiful glassed French doors,
the sliding on shiny floors made of dark wood !
My sweet bedroom had an antique chest of drawers,
oh, a mansion like front staircase spiraled up, up, up, up,
and I will never forget the nooks where games were made-up !
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October 22, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Sweet Memories of Home
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1399-039-22
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Bite Size Poem, No. 24
sponsor, Line Gauthier, Judged 10/27/2021
Honorable Mention
Once upon a time
There was a pretty girl,
She sold knockoffs of jewelry,
To keep herself in curls.
She squirrelled away some chains,
Let no one know she had them.
It was a bit of chicanery,
But she enjoyed believing she owned them.
Strange thing happened
One by one they disappeared,
She had laid them on her chest of drawers,
And no one had been “here.”
One day she saw a twinkling,
Between chest and the wall,
She stuck her hand through the crack,
Found the chains – one and all.
Now this girl had an alley cat
She had raised him since first he was found,
He always licked at shiny things,
Now he had his own little mound.
Did I tell you she’d been charged with stealing?
She was always short on her sales,
Who’s the thief? The cat or the girl?
Who’s gonna put up the bail?