Best Creaked Poems
I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose Cottage. I was taken by surprise when I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of my inheritance. Her cottage had been vacated when she went into a care home, and sadly she passed away a few years later. Gran had been widowed at an early age so I’d never met grandpa. I was her only grandchild and had such fond memories of spending summer holidays with her.
ripe red strawberries
boiling in the copper pan
I label jam jars
When I pulled into the driveway I was shocked to see how dilapidated the cottage was. Green shutters were hanging off their hinges and paint was peeling from the window frames. I recalled the perfectly manicured lawns and cottage garden flowers which were gran’s pride and joy, now a forest of dandelions sprouted from the lawn and brambles snaked their way through the honeysuckle arch way. I picked my way through the vegetation which was covering the moss covered path and turned the key in the lock; the heavy oak door creaked like my arthritic joints. Gran’s cosy cottage had always been spick and span, but now every surface was covered with a layer of thick grey dust and lacy cobwebs hung from the black beams on all the ceilings. As I wandered through the empty rooms my footsteps echoed on the old pine floorboards which were littered with strips of wallpaper falling from the damp walls. My heart sank when I saw how much work was needed to restore and modernise the old stone cottage, but with time and effort and help from my family I’m determined to bring it back to its former glory
neglected cottage
in need of renovation
rambling roses bloom
Fiction poem for Thesaurus - Abandon or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
POEM AWARDED POEM OF THE DAY
06/14/20
Categories:
creaked, growing up, house, memory,
Form:
Haibun
(iambic tetrameter)
The curtains fell and wrapped the stage
as lights and accolades became
another yesterday once more.
Another night and one more show,
another play that doesn't last
beyond the venue alley ways.
Applause became a murmur and
the shuffle of impatient shoes
now slowly faded out the door.
The Company is dressed and gone,
a spectral quiet stalked the din
and chased it through the backstage halls.
Conspicuous, the silence fell
when last the alley door was locked,
no one to care if I was late,
no one to listen for the gate
that creaked at midnight's lonely bells
as eighteen times Westminster tolled
down where the Phantom truly walks
in night shoes where the echoes talk.
Categories:
creaked, night,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
amid scurrying feet,
in the whirling humanity,
with divided aims,
and sizzling brains,
she paused with singularity of purpose.
never in a hurry, more at peace,
on a park bench, alone,
bent and weird, she sat.
when she moved,
her bones creaked,
on rusty hinges!
ragged in dress, torn in body,
face scourged by Time,
its contours deep like ravines.
her withered breasts,
hanging like nests of tailor birds.
hair lying disheveled,
with eyes shrouded in mist,
she looked out into the sinking sun,
never dreading the darkness that falls.
the park bench was her temporary halt.
she sat there every evening
determined to live on,
with the coins habitually dropped,
into her outstretched hands,
by those sailing past her,
unobtrusive self.
like a monument of patience
she sat.
sat, so alone!
~ First Place Trophy Win~
Dec.16.2022
Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest. No.55
Categories:
creaked, angst, destiny, lonely,
Form:
Free verse
Lost in the darkness
of my mind.
Not looking forward,
I was stuck behind.
Wanton whispers,
my body creaked.
I could not find
those things I seeked
The horse with blinders
that I rode,
ate from the seeds
that I had sewed.
It layed bloated
on the ground.
Beneath its hooves
no earth was found.
The sun there shone
upon my head.
I feared the valley
of the dead.
Tin cup empty,
my throat was parched.
Towards my doom,
the clouds were arched.
Then I felt
God’s gracious hand.
There was an escape
I had not planned.
His voice whispered
in my ear.
“Do not fear
for I am here.”
A new light grew
before my eyes.
I no longer believed
the devil’s lies.
There was safe passage
from the past.
A splendid future,
my horizon vast.
Categories:
creaked, angst, baptism, conflict, grave,
Form:
Rhyme
I carried it on my lap all the way to you,
The bus ride was so long, so long, Mom;
Lost in old memories of you and me, together,
I just looked out the window all the way.
Holding a wilting red rose ~
The gate of the cemetery creaked as usual,
The path filled with many crumbling leaves;
Cool wind took my long raven hair blowing it back,
I felt my tears falling as I neared your tomb.
Holding a wilting red rose ~
I stood for a long time with my eyes closed,
The words carved in stone and in my heart;
Feeling the pride of a daughter for a wonderful Mom,
I fell to my knees weeping for what is lost.
Holding a wilting red rose ~
Then at last I rose and dried the forever tears,
I touched the words carved on your cold tomb;
And retraced my steps down the path, closing the gate,
I boarded the bus and was soon lost in thought.
Holding a wilting red rose ~
. . . . . still
________________________________
May 11, 2014
Poetry/Verse/Holding a wilting red rose
Copyright Protected, ID 05-565-847-11
All Rights Reserved, 2014, Constance La France
Categories:
creaked, death, mother, mothers day,
Form:
Verse
As a grown woman I should now be content
to keep your memory well at arm's length.
Yet you live in my head and you pay no rent
so I'll have to call on my inner strength.
I'd hear your footsteps coming so near;
the stairway creaked and gave you away.
I was hidden under the bed in fear
knowing as usual I was your prey.
Your wicked transgressions crushed my spirit
yet I did not stay broken forever.
Life sang a song and I chose to hear it;
so much for your unholy endeavor!
Don't you know children are meant to be cherished;
not taken for granted,abused or destroyed?
Is it any wonder my love for you perished?
My heart for you is just dark and devoid.
I try to walk a path built on forgiving
the wrongs you did to me when I was young.
For truly I choose to just spend my time living.
Life's a banquet that tastes sweet on my tongue.
for contest "The Confessional"
Categories:
creaked, abuse, childhood,
Form:
Rhyme
A dry and barren moat
around historic tower, London’s pride
for many years in restful dormant mood
dreaming of days gone by
when swords clashed and armour creaked;
the yells and screams of battle filled the air.
Testament of courage and pain;
did those who fought there die in vain?
A dry and barren moat
now back to life to mark Remembrance Day
with a gushing flow of poppies dressed in red
reflecting thoughts of Flanders.
Who dedicates these scarlet blooms,
to souls that rest in earthen tombs?
A dry and barren moat
its open bleeding heart that drips with recollections
of destructive devastation and needless deaths.
Governments rise only to fall;
cries still trapped in the tower's wall.
A dry and barren moat
where visitors now see the red carpet
in place to praise bravery.
Haven't families of lost soldiers
earned a red carpet too?
Let them saunter somberly
above the moat, across the fields.
Such is the costly price of war;
buried loved ones we'll see no more.
A dry and barren moat
encases the historic tower,
a silhouette reminder at sunset
that no one wins a war.
A lone bugle plays taps;
it resounds through the crisp air.
A sad family walks away,
leaving tears on a floral spray.
---------------------------------------------------
Paul Callus & Carolyn Devonshire (Nov. 2014)
Categories:
creaked, remembrance day, war,
Form:
Free verse
There was a barn once painted red
that stood on grandpa's old homestead.
T'was built so very long ago -
a sorry sight. I told him so.
I often, as a boy, had wondered
why it hadn't ever timbered.
I knew the sagging rafters creaked
and roof, with missing shingles, leaked.
I stepped inside, the barn doors gone
and found it home for sparrows' song.
Circled they, around freely,
over floors in man's debris.
No matter which way I would glance,
dust in the sunlight rays would dance.
The warning cobwebs seemed to sketch.
Between the timbers, they would stretch.
Foundation laid in cobblestone
but its sure footing wasn't known.
Between the stones were gaping cracks
that could not hide the basic facts.
Now every post in building leaned,
and wall to wall had needed cleaned.
The winter winds would whistle through.
That big ol' barn had lost, I knew.
The weather's sin had taken toll
and wind and sleet had found its soul.
Its only purpose, couldn't render -
so it offered full surrender.
Now that ol' barn is much like us
and in our wants, we make a fuss.
Our sagging souls are so uncouth
that we no longer seek the truth.
Deceit flies in our open door
'til we care little anymore.
We’d rather compromise instead
as cobwebs fill our empty head.
Our minds are filled in sins' debris
with anyone whom we'd agree.
The love is lost between our bones.
It leaves us cold with loosened stones.
Will our beliefs stand firm, upright -
or will we yield to windy blight?
Are we responsible instead, or
is our character really dead?
Down through the years, the time has lapsed
and long ago that barn collapsed.
As I look now at its demise
I listen to the worlds last cries....
©2008 louis gander / ganderpoems.org
Categories:
creaked, character, freedom, political, remember,
Form:
Quatrain
The line of people out the door.
The queue that snaked around the floor.
The building's sleek art deco style.
The carpets' faded plush red pile.
The "Coming Soon" in convex frames.
The "Showing Now" and big star names.
The James Bond pose in poster shots.
The tickets from the kiosk slots.
The heavy doors that often creaked.
The seats on springs that always squeaked.
The fan shaped lights along the side.
The screen that stretched up high and wide.
The smoke that swirled inside the beam.
The shapes and sounds of Pearl And Dean.
The adverts that had overrun.
The trailers for the films to come.
The feature that would come on first.
The sudden pangs of extreme thirst.
The usherette's cool ice cream stint.
The fancy names like Midnight Mint.
The expectations in the place.
The action of the opening chase.
The talking scenes that went nowhere.
The plastic cup beneath my chair.
The glance at watches in poor light.
The stunts and guns and final fight.
The seats that sprung as credits rolled.
The exit doors and night time cold.
Categories:
creaked, childhood, film, memory,
Form:
Rhyme
In the shadowed maw of the forest deep,
Where whispers of the night do creep,
There lies a tale, a chilling draft,
That sends shivers down the spine, so deft.
A cabin old, with windows like eyes,
Staring into the abyss of skies,
Stood silent, save for the wind's soft moan,
In a clearing where no bird had flown.
The walls, once warm with family cheer,
Now echo with an unseen fear,
For in this place, where laughter ceased,
A darker presence was increased.
A traveler, weary from the road,
Seeking shelter from the night's cold brood,
Pushed through the door, creaking, worn,
Unaware of the terror he would spawn.
The hearth was cold, the air was thick,
A sense of dread, so sly and sick,
He felt the past, the tales untold,
Of souls that vanished in the cold.
As dusk turned to a starless night,
The traveler felt an eerie blight,
A whisper soft, a breath, a sigh,
A voice that seemed to crawl and cry.
"Leave this place," it hissed and wept,
"For in these walls, we hungrily kept,
The essence of the lost, the dead,
Feast upon your fear, your dread."
The traveler, his heart a frantic beat,
Felt the chill of phantom feet,
A spectral dance, a ghostly throng,
Circling him as if to prove him wrong.
He sought to flee, to break the spell,
But found the door would not compel,
Trapped within the cabin's grip,
His sanity began to slip.
The air grew heavy, thick as soup,
As shadows took the form of group,
Of tormented souls, with eyes aglow,
Reaching out from below.
The traveler, in despair, did shout,
"What do you want, these haunts about?"
A voice then spoke, a raspy sound,
"To join our dance, forever bound."
The floorboards creaked, and the walls did bend,
As if the very house would end,
The traveler, with a final prayer,
Felt the grasp of icy air.
His scream was lost, absorbed by night,
As he was pulled from mortal sight,
Another soul to join the throng,
In the cabin's horror, where he's drawn.
Now heed this tale, ye who roam,
Avoid the cabin, its dreadful home,
For in the forest, dark and wild,
Lieth a terror, most unsanctified.
And so, the story ends, but not its tune,
For under the haunted, silent moon,
The cabin waits for one more soul,
To complete its ghastly, grim role.
Categories:
creaked, halloween, horror, scary,
Form:
Rhyme
Old Mr. Oak
Old Mr. Oak had bumps on his sides.
In his tired arms, black birds did reside.
He had seen all kinds come and go,
watching the young become old and slow.
The largest and king of mighty trees,
for 100 years, he’d danced in the breeze.
Children had used him to play at their games,
and he laughed at snowstorms, ice and rains.
Seasons came and time passed by.
Many have stood under his watchful eye.
Lovers carved their initials in a heart.
Smiling, he knew he'd always be a part.
Old Mr. Oak’s bones creaked when he swayed.
Sometimes an arm or two would give way.
One day the owner built a pool in his yard.
Earth movers’ trauma hit Mr. Oak hard.
In autumn his leaves turned but didn’t fall.
They hung there brown for an expert to call.
He said he was dying from shock and such.
The shifting of his roots had been too much.
Old Mr. Oak had to face his life’s end.
To the last ounce of living this tree would defend.
His limbs hit the ground and jarred Mother earth.
Saws snarled as they grappled with his thick girth.
He closed his eyes on the green garden world,
and sighed as his life began to unfurl.
That glowing fire of a room so warm,
comes from old Mr. Oak, all the years long.
1/6/16
Categories:
creaked, age, tree,
Form:
Personification
“I like my lover's heart blackened with a deeper shade of darkness, where the ravens and I can rest in peace.” Ann Marie Eleazer
She had her potions ready, plus an arrow etched with runes.
Stygian mists swirled all around, yet she had perfect aim.
Into the dark forest she went and spotted the raven.
A deadly hit but ill-omened: it was a female black bird.
Cursing in anger, she knew it proved no good for her.
The male raven flew above her as she entered the mansion.
Dressed in black, she entered her dilapidated bedroom to change.
Below, all waited, dressed for the occasion.
They heard a muffled scream, and all ran upstairs.
A long time passed, and no one dared enter the room.
Finally, the door creaked open. Dust, soot, while a poison ivy
Grew on damp curtain wooden rails, a dilapidated screen
Hid a tattered black dress, while two black ravens flew into the night.
Categories:
creaked, dark, fantasy, raven,
Form:
Free verse
The sofa may be stained and old
But what stories can it unfold
Sit ye down and you'll be told
It was on that sofa i met your mam
A few more kisses, and a few more drams
Through the bottom of the glass
She looked real glam
For in the morning
After the night before
To sleep on the couch
I'd always end up on the floor
The sitting room door always creaked
It was her father who always peaked
Just to be sure he knew i was there
And not slowly sneaking up the stair
So the sofa's in house's
With so many tales to be told
Are we going to divulge
And be so bold?
For there are kids called Brooklyn, India and Sahara
Kids of today, and kids of tomorrow
Children from Europe, and from Poland's Craiova
Not many kids have been called Sofa
" This just came to me after seeing the word Sofa in Doris Culverhouse's poem Stained "
Categories:
creaked, funny
Form:
Rhyme
Blue velvet caged
Behind rusty bars.
Soul within chars.
Fervent flames raged.
Mighty door creaked
Black-veiled phantoms
Chanting the anthems
Thus the dusts freaked.
All the phantoms read
The holy pages.
The pious sages
For repentance plead.
Life’s last drops
Time’s burning tears.
Soaked deep in fears,
Crushed by crops,
The soul crumples.
Satan’s oracle
Tempting manacle
On heart tramples.
Towers of flesh
Drag my weary bones
As the axe-man hones
His blade afresh
Heard the Devil's voice:
"Crimson Cross!"
My dice to toss
Fate's generous choice!
"Kneel by the altar
Take my rosary,
Or God's pillory.
You have to falter?"
Succumbing feet tread
On scaffold's heart
As the moments part
What's there that they dread?
Nails of Divine love
Prick my palms
Grope for balms
Wails a benign dove
Mocking herd of sheep
Ignorant vultures
The gaze tortures
The wound doth weep.
The Fallen Prince
Roars with laughter:
"The hereafter!?!
Who else to convince?"
"O thou Holy, hark
The Forsaken Son
Has thy Father won?"
All the rest is dark…?
Categories:
creaked, death, devotion, faith, life,
Form:
Narrative
I am a wall painted purple, oh, I remember that day well,
a girl of raven hair, standing on a ladder painting me;
I was laughing because her hair had streaks of purple paint,
and she was dappled all over with dots of me.
The next few days I was left alone to dry in quietude,
then came the antique furniture and mauve drapery;
art work was attached to me in hues of purple so lovely,
my whole essence was of peace and tranquility.
I liked to watch the girl dance around the room so pretty,
she looked at herself in an oval mirror attached to me;
and I felt she was looking into my soul, often she was writing,
at her desk into a diary with tears in her eyes.
How I wanted to reach out and stroke that head gently,
but of course I was just a purple wall, I felt her sadness;
then one day she was wearing a beautiful white dress,
I did not realize that she was leaving me that day.
The door to my room closed with the furniture covered,
I spent my days in darkness as the curtains hid the sun,
at night all I had were my memories of that raven haired girl,
then one day, the door creaked open, so slowly.
An old lady with white hair holds the hand of a little girl,
she strokes the raven hair of the girl with such love;
the dark haired girl smiles- the lady calls her granddaughter,
she tells her, "this is the room where I used to dance."
Then, they open up the curtains and throw off the covers,
and they begin to dance and twirl all about the room;
I am happy- I want to join them but I am just a purple wall,
that little girl now looks into the oval mirror . . .
attached to me, and it seems she is looking into my soul.
_______________________
October 14, 2016
Poetry/Personification/Just A Purple Wall
Copyright Protected, ID 16-839-255-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Personification
sponsor, Lewis Raynes
Sixth Place
Categories:
creaked, nostalgia,
Form:
Personification