Best Cranny Poems
Winter is approaching.
I feel it in my floorboards; in my baseboards;
in every nook and cranny.
I wait to be filled again at this time of Thanksgiving, and
As I wait, sounds of the past linger in my consciousness:
The excited moans of the men and of the women (some of whose
first introduction to me came from being carried across my threshold)
as they lay close together in their bed late at night;
The strange incessant wailing of babies that later arrived -
wailing that later changed, more often than not, into squeals of glee.
Some of the families I sheltered engulfed me with heaviness.
In those years, I was assaulted by loud shouting,
much like the barking of dogs from outside.
Those shouts were often met by shrill hysterical screams
or even by the sad sobs of children.
One sound stays with me like a ghost: the quiet weeping
of one lone occupant who held a gun to his head.
In an instant I felt his blood splatter against my walls.
I prefer to remember the touch of the children:
their small smudged fingers exploring my kitchen cupboards;
their tiny warm bodies scooting across my tiles.
On one unusual occasion, a child scribbled happily
on my bathroom walls with bright Crayola colors.
After the explosion of his mother’s angry words,
the bathroom was transformed, and with magic paper
a small part of me was wearing the figures of gold and purple fish.
Forty times or more I’ve been left; then re-inhabited.
Several times I’ve been overhauled: my carpet torn out, a new one laid;
my doors and my fixtures changed for modern ones;
my furnace and my pipes (even once a ceiling) - all replaced.
But lately, I’ve felt so weary, and even renovated, I’m feeling out of place.
Just last month as I was emptied and cleaned for the umpteenth time,
I heard the newest landlord tell his wife:
We won’t have to put up with this crap anymore -
not after we get the offer from those guys who want to build a mall.
I wonder what he meant. My heat and water both have been cut off for so long.
Usually a couple is here by now. But only silence echoes through my halls,
and I’m growing so very cold.
I rummaged through
the ancient ruins
and scoured
the carnage of our times;
I searched the scorching
expanse of the arid deserts,
I peeked into the crevices
of the broken hearts,
and probed the dark realm
of the deranged minds;
I looked in the dead ashes
of the funeral pyre,
I ransacked every nook and
cranny of the cemeteries
And forayed into the desolate
womb of the barren woman --
But did not find death!
I then looked at
the first flush of spring--
The blossoming flowers,
The fluttering butterflies
The humming bees,
The rising robust sun;
And found the hand of death.
I found death in the unyielding
faith of the trusting hearts,
In the ardent prayers
of the desperate souls,
And in the unbridled
passion of the heart;
Even in birth and
in the sprouting seed
I found the omnipresence of death.
yeah, I found death in life!
~'Death Shadow' contest by Justin Bordner
That night, in a strange place
I was like a fly
Circling a street light
Reeling…Reeling!
I felt so alone
Fear wrenched my throat
Couldn’t predict
When I would be charred to death
I had heard,
In the cover of dark
Everyone was a robber
Or a masked assassin!
Without a roof over my head
I was like a mole
Smoked out of its hole
And exposed to blaring light
Had it been my own town
Where I knew
Every nook and cranny
Like the lines of my palm
I wouldn’t have minded
Being so helplessly stranded
Or left in the night
At a distance….
I saw the faint silhouette of hills
Like dreadful dinosaurs crouching
Also the outlines of buildings
Reminding one of the medieval haunted castles
Stray dogs, mangy
Were raiding the trash bins.
I don’t know why then
I enjoyed their company
I could hear the falling hooves
Of cattle, led to the slaughterhouse,
And the lash of whips falling on them,
Echoing the shrieking of a banshee!
Saw an auto lying upside down
Fallen unwary in a pothole
A line of tanker lorries
Seen halted by the roadside,
Like the bogies of a goods train
And their drivers went home,
To sleep with their mates
Behind the cover, I saw
Two figures leaning;
A man and a woman
Night owls at a mating serenade!
I closed my eyes,
Covering them with my palm
In that unearthly hour
An eerie fear gripped me.
Tension was building inside,
Like a balloon being bloated with air
And how my mind longed
To slither out of that hole
To curl up in the warmth of my home
Far… far away!
"As water flows down when a faucet is turned on, thoughts and feelings pour out into a journal cleansing the heart" ~ By Poet
I keep a journal, a treasure chest of memories.
Where I record each day’s activities
Where I divulge my innermost secrets
As my feelings overflow into each blank page,
I get the therapeutic effect of unburdening my heart.
Though I scrawl down in messy hand,
It is a slice of my heart and I treasure it,
More than any other document I have.
Every day I empty my heart into its pages,
My pen bleeds words in red.
I paint me as I am, honest and truthful.
I don’t want to be a sham.
Here I lay bare my life,
Fraught with aches, dotted with smiles.
My longings and my heart aches
My expectations, my disappointments
My triumphs, my defeats
My search through every nook n’ cranny for success
My plunge into the nadir of despair on defeat
My moments of escalating joy
My dark hours of crippling distress
Everything I want to be,
Everything I fail to be.
Journaling, poetry, and prayer fill my day.
They help me keep all my boredom away!
The rose was fragile in its beauty,
Its hue the colour of romance novels and warm tea,
But these flowers aren’t flickers of flames in winter,
They were cold,
They were your soulless eyes staring up at me from a casket.
You became the still image of everything you should never have been,
Your hair was too neat,
Your honey blond fragments a solid streak,
It was always untidy,
No wonder you were loved so widely.
You were never a rose,
Never dainty nor small,
Pesticides and gloves were never needed,
You always grew tall.
I could touch you without bleeding,
Your thorns never pierced my skin,
You helped me grow,
But now you’re gone,
No sunlight or rainwater tears will ever bring you back.
When I sit in my garden and I watch the sunflowers turn towards that sun,
It hurts a little less to have lost a loved one,
But now I understand.
Not why you had to die but why you lived,
Your life was a garden of memories and breath,
Of the mellow sun striking the petals of yellow sunflowers,
That was you Cath,
You tilted towards everything bright,
Sunflowers litter my garden now,
A sea of sunshine smiling faces,
You are never dead,
For the blazing memory of you keeps every nook and cranny of my garden alive.
Jamaica is our island’s name,
A land blessed with so much fame.
And for the part that our heroes did play,
We pause to reflect and salute them today.
Nanny of the Maroons was a heroine ,true and brave ,
And fought with all her might not to be a slave.
Marcus Mosiah Garvey made us proud of our Black race,
And everywhere he went there was pride on his face.
Paul Bogle of Stony Gut fought for justice for all,
And the powers that be had no choice but to listen to his call.
Norman Washington Manley defended workers’ rights with passion,
And fought with all his might to change every unjust working condition.
Sir Alexander Bustamante was a stalwart for workers everywhere,
And was the voice of the voiceless and spoke without fear.
George William Gordon stood tall to help the poor with their plight,
And he never backed down or turned away until things were made right.
Sam Sharpe listened and he heard what the planters said,
But he stood tall and bravely said, “No more slavery,I’d rather be dead.”
We have been blessed with a great legacy and we are a proud nation,
And our unsung heroes and heroines continue to rise to the occasion.
We must unite against the common foe and guard against complacency,
We must be resilient like our heroes and safeguard our rich legacy.
A legacy of greatness , hard work and resilience in every community,
A legacy of talent, ambition, skills and self-worth in every nook and cranny.
No retreat! no surrender! we will continue to blaze a trail,
And as the blood of our ancestors runs through our veins, we will prevail!
Not by sight but by great might, we will continue the fight,
As we vow to conquer the common foe and make things right.
And just like our heroes did , we will stand tall with pride and decency,
As we salute our heroes and safeguard our rich, bountiful legacy.
By Carolyn Devonshire
casting my line from a rock jetty
sad, high-pitch cry I hear
glance around, see no one
cast again but the cry echoes
as if reverberating in the rocks
fishing pole I lay down
now searching every crevice
suddenly a wee feline springs forth
mewing alone atop the stone
from where she emerged, I look down
a litter of six cradled by their mama
so thin the mother cat appears
no food nearby and tears fill my eyes
return to my cooler, retrieving three trout
place them in the cranny
mama cat meows softly
no thanks were needed
feeding frenzy begins for the kittens
mama cat remains still, but purrs
providing nourishment for her clan
more important than feeding herself
wish the brotherhood of man could learn from mama cat
cries of hunger go unheard
*Entry for Michael’s “Sounds of a Cry” contest
Based on a true experience
YUCK
I know we are supposed to love them
all creatures great and small
I know God had a reason
when he created those that crawl
even those that creep and flit
are part of a master plan
filling every earthly niche
in air, in water, on land
but Lord in your mighty scheme
please tell me in what mood
as you perused your work
and saw that it was good
inspected every nook and cranny
touched every leaf and twig
prompted you without a glance
to invent the pesky earwig.
One big boom reverberates,
we shelter 'neath the railway bridge,
the swirling wind ensures we get a soaking anyway.
The Croal is roaring well above the watermark,
the nature lover in me hopes the smaller fish
will beat the flow and seek a sheltered cranny.
Peewits squeal, and wheel through softened skies,
as sunshine makes a welcome reappearance.
Drying out, we wait for trains,
our notebooks at the ready.
A record twenty-six come through,
some chug to local destinations,
others muscle by, non-stop,
to Carlisle and the Scottish Highlands.
We eat our sandwiches in silence,
underlining names and numbers.
Clambering up the embankment
and skittering down, as gravity
grabs then releases we fall in a heap,
and can't wait to do it again!
An impromptu game of catch,
throwing stones instead of tennis balls,
our laughter uncontrollable,
we trip and stagger home.
The warp and weft, the fabric of my youth
still reassures me with these moments of enduring truth.
To the one I love
Just because...
And to those who love life
And those who love love!
Through every cranny, every crack
In every nook of every room
It seeks to fill the empty space
And lift the shadowed shade of gloom
So be it hastened by the heart
Or blessed by universal source
Without it, life would simply cease
So never doubt its mighty force
And you, my sweet, on every day
Give freely of your precious gift
And fill this bleak and barren void
To shatter darkness, sure and swift
Yes, it is light of which I scribe
Of which each crack and cranny holds
No matter where and in my heart
I feel the love that it enfolds
Three weeks into lockdown, we're still in one piece,
the house is now looking pristine,
we've dusted and shined every surface we see
now only the air left to clean.
We've searched every cranny, we've looked high and low
but still there's no sign of our Puss,
I think that last night she decided to go,
got fed up with being over-fussed.
The missus each day in her favourite pyjamas,
and slippers, just wanders about,
but when she turns round, well, it really alarms us,
there's a hole,and her bum's hanging out.
We've tried to eat healthily, bought the right stuff,
organic, and calorie free,
but now it's got boring, and I'm feeling rough
so it's baked beans on pizza for me.
A real ale delivery is next on the cards,
it's top of the list on our plans,
don't know where to put it, there's nowhere to go
since the larder is full of beer cans.
At least we're all civil, no rows or profanity,
for three weeks now we've all been stuck,
I'm off to the shops,now, quite proud of my sanity
with mask on, and dressed as a duck.
A ventured stroll away from talk
taking in all superfluous detail
allowing it to fill my corrupted senses
an escape from the tedium
it invites me to escape from the routine.
To open new ways of perceiving
at what has been seen before
yet never revealed afore.
Rarely a moment goes by
when the same view cannot take on a new hue
for the view is alive
pumping subtle life
into each crook and cranny
so that every microcosmic detail
the tiniest of other earthly intelligence
are also offered the opportunity
the same that we are given
to flourish
of making a worthy society.
Beneath our very feet
subtle signs are there
for us to perceive if only
our eyes are able to notice.
Cracks and fissures around
infrastructures hardened textures
allow glimpses of those forces
not insubordinate
just seeking a share of living space
to echo their colourful vibrations
on our un-perceiving attentions.
An eye so keen to accept such notices
might be tempted to see
such sacred messages for us to feel or heed.
Madness may even encroach
to accept the design of such a divine creation
is at work edging around our corrosive borders.
Behind the corporal language
a communication so deep and so fine
no human sense could fully comprehend.
Unless we learned to abandon
our fleshy bony vehicles for a simpler primordial state
surrender complete intimacy with all of creation.
Hearing unutterable whispers of shining comfort
through the cracks and fissures along
the pavement, striding, roaming
surging up through gutters and drains.
The unsuspecting borders between nature
and our singular self-enhancing interactions.
Life is surging,
urging us to manifest,
in joining in feeding on its royal bosom
sharing in the feast of creation
so we, in turn, will return
to nourish the elementary message
of our purest love.
My mind is a very active place.
Like for all people,
the number of its rooms is limitless,
for the mind travels to many places
as well as traveling via novels and movies,
so those rooms are ever-changing.
They are decorated automatically.
You need not lift a finger to decorate them!
One room different from the ever-changing ones
is my attic. Perhaps for unluckier souls
this room could be a basement or a dungeon!
In my attic are mostly memories which,
for me, are beautifully colored.
Nostalgia floods its very broad expanse
and drips into every nook and cranny.
The main room of my mind
is the living room.
This is like the living room of my friends' minds,
the common room where our thinking dictates
what lies inside it and how those thoughts
are perceived by others.
I like to think my living room is unique,
but also I know it's filled with too much clutter!
The room most interesting of all my rooms
would be the room of my imagination.
In this room are thousands upon thousands
of closets, cabinets, and shelves,
and inside each one are different pieces of
my imagination!
Each cabinet is organized by type.
Some are surreal in color or vivid technicolor!
Those pieces are my dreams.
My fantasies are closeted.
The ones made manifest on paper or computer
are sitting out on shelves!
All the ones which can be seen
are those I call my poems or stories.
Most are not dark in color
but are bright or multi-colored.
I decorate the room of my imagination often.
You may come and see my new shelves
at any time!
Do mind the wet paint.
I'm never finished adding to that room!
Feb. 26, 2018 (my only free verse for this year so far!)
Inspired by another contest but too long for that one.
For John Hamilton's Best Free Verse of 2018 Contest
Cupid Pulls Back The Bow
This café I have stopped to dine,
with hopes I’ll meet my Valentine
I’ve seen her here most every day,
just never had the nerve to say
I took my seat at table two
and ordered what I usually do
Then noticed something just not right
my eyes they caught the strangest sight
It sat up there upon a shelf
with wings it looked as if an elf
An arrow held within its hand,
as if it had some evil plan
When then as I sipped on my tea,
I saw his arrow point at me
His one eye closed, the other stared,
by now I’m feeling really scared
Just then she walked into the place,
a perfect smile upon her face
I watched her as she took her seat
to order something good to eat
She motioned me to join her there,
come take a seat, this empty chair
When suddenly from in my eye
I saw his arrow start to fly
I thought real quick, I had to duck,
it missed me, that was my good luck
Then hit the guy at table three
who quickly dropped his cup of tea
Oh boy, the look upon his face
is one my mind can not erase
I made my way to sit with her,
She said, “I am so sorry sir”
“I motioned not for you, you see
but to the man at table three”
He sat right down where she did dine
and said, "Please be my Valentine"
Something had come over him,
his heart was feeling young again
She told him that she felt the same
and was so happy that he came
They kissed as I just walked away,
I felt so stupid on this day
About the place my eyes did look
in every cranny, every nook
And there still sitting on the shelf,
he shrugged his shoulders, did the elf
And at that time I came to know,
don’t duck when cupid pulls the bow
1/5/17
Written for the Cupid Pulls Back The Bow Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose
In every home
there is a place
That is always forgotten,
Is it
Festering with ants
Or
Inhabited by gnomes?
I don't know what goes on
There
In every
Cranny and nook.
And perhaps I never will ever
Know.
But the the buried corner feels like a song
Without a
tune
That I can dance to,
Barefoot on cold wood.
It tastes like chocolate in my mouth
Sweet, dark, lingering.
It makes me sad,
It has memories,
It is alive.
I can feel its heartbeat
Pulsing,
Parallel to mine.
I feel the pull
Of promises of solitude
And answers to its call.
We dance together,
The forgotten corner and I ,
To our heartbeats
Only we can hear
You never get bored
sitting there
On a bright sunny day.
Watching light chase shadows on the floor
playing the game of
cat and mouse.
(I want to stay )
You never get bored
lying there
Listening to the sound of silence
The sound of dust swirling around.
Transparent like a butterfly's wings,
illuminated by the prefect degree of light
(I want to stay)
Yet there is always a few square meters
Where darkness reigns
Open your arms and welcome it like a friend
(I want to stay )
Sit down for a
minute or two
With hands still full of slippery
soapy foam
Feel the weight
Of memories of objects
Here.
Understand it,
Follow me,
I am staying here
Forever.
Oh look!
(sorry I get distracted easily)
What a pretty flowery blue umbrella!
Why is it lying here?
So lonely,
In this hallway where no one ever comes?
hallway of the forgotten,
Hallway of the lost?
Perhaps it
Belonged to Mary Poppins.
One day
In a time when umbrellas are
dragons and unicorns,
objects from a distant forgotten time.
When you and I are dead and gone,
fallen to dust,
Maybe a child would stumble by it,
maybe auction it off for a
couple billion dollars
That's how high a price
An artefact from the twenty-first century
could fetch.
If you want to bury something
Or let something bury you
Shed your fears
let's go,
You and I,
find that dark corner
A safe harbour,
Full of things long forgotten
And you will be forgotten
Too.