Best Cupboards Poems
Twas the night before Christmas, when all thru the Soup bowl,
Not a poet was writing, not even the musing mole.
All their pens were hung by the chimney with bubble gum,
Hoping Winged Warrior would lose and let them win some.
The poetesses were nestled snuggled in their beds,
With visions of their makeup now surely spreads.
While Silent One was awake only took a silent nap,
Waking Bobby May, who finally took his crappy crap.
Noises from the lawn where SOS was making such a clatter,
He was speaking in Klingon about the Borg mad hatter.
I then slipped by the window and dropped my hash,
Tore open the cupboards to hide the stinky stash.
Brenda Chiri & Susan Ashley were making angels in the snow,
For they were locked out from the bowl and had no place to go.
Lin Lane & Jan Allison got up early to make some grub,
Then left extra early to go to the local pub.
Brandy Nicole and Anne-Lise were looking at the moon,
While the Bard and John Hamilton were playing a chilly tune.
In the morn, Heidi Sands & Connie Wong were ready to write,
Dreaming of winning a contest all through the night.
Charles Messina & Chris Green having an eggnog beer,
As St Victor Buhagiar feeds the lazy reindeer.
A knock at the door and all started to stare,
Why its newbies Midnight Aurora and Hello There.
Now Gershon! now, Andrea! Now, Besma and Regina!
On, Sandra! On, Kimmy! On Caren & down under Maria!
Next time bring deodorant for it smells like a horses stall,
I need some fresh air, fly my pretties fly away all.
...sorry, if I left anyone out...will get you next time!...
~~~Happy! Holidays! Everyone!~~~
Nov.20.2019
The Night Before 2
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Placed 2'nd & POTD~Plus 3'rd in the top 100 New Poems...Thank You
Through the years they worked their spells
From drawers and cupboards, taking things
That through them, thus, were given wings
And changed to sweetness meant for kings
With warm and wafting scrumptious smells
My Nana's hands ...
Countless times we'd strolled to town
To shop for what she'd need that eve
(First taking stock before we'd leave)
A shopping list tucked up her sleeve
My wee lad's fingers, safe and sound
In Nana's hands ...
The way back home was twice as long
Our arms filled plump with paper sacks
The makings and some special snacks
Oh, how the groceries bent our backs
Yet even then, I held on tight ...
To Nana's hands ...
Still it was always worth the chores
To watch her mix and bake and cook
While dancing to-and-from her nook
And glancing, sometimes, in a book
Oh, how I marveled and adored ...
My Nana's hands ...
But sometimes they were hard to hold
Curled with arthritis, wracked with pain
She oft' times had to stretch and strain
Though NEVER did she ONCE complain
Through rheumatism's stranglehold ...
On Nana's hands ...
See ...
Those bent old hands in disrepair
Worked twice as hard so we could eat
Thus each night's meal and every treat
Was that much more divine and sweet
All from the love and tender care ...
Of Nana's hands ...
And still, my fingers long to share ...
My Nana's
Gentle ...
Hands.
- by Gregory R Barden
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Cornucopia Cooking" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
Her kitchen of boiling bacon,
and margarine - it was always steamy
and 'welcomingly' warm.
The bathroom, off the kitchen,
smelt of carbolic soap, and a layer
of talcum powder dusted the cupboards
a reminder of its liberal use.
The garden, with a greenhouse,
had a glorious array of pinks
and Sweet Williams - it was always summer:
no winters here, always sunny, as I recall.....
The old corrugated air-raid shelter,
above ground now, was a haven
for childhood, childish games.
It smelt of paraffin from the heater.
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
She would lick her hanky and
wipe my mouth if it was sticky
from the gingerbread she'd made.
My Grandma always looked the same,
never younger, never older:-
her memory etched in my cerebral
photo frame as I remember her ........
smelling of peppermints,
fingers deformed with crippling arthritis,
but smiling, wiping mouths, cooking,
or sitting in her little garden in a floral dress.....
She's been gone for thirty years now,
but still I see her there.
I see the tissue filled pockets in her
'pinny'and the pin-curls in her hair.
Yes, my Grandma smelt of peppermints.........
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.
"The Right Eye Removed"
intuition guides a feline mind
to feel vain glorious
in the poetry of dreams
stretching limits of awareness
velvet pawed
a burnt orange
bittersweet marmalade coat
delicious to kiss
the point between
the ears that listen for signs
mink stole he wears
himself striped around my neck
finding new ways
to purr through his dark night
into the mystery of
his opaque opalus opallios world
his left analytical
glistening topaz
prehistoric amber
shines like glass
black iris blooming
in a pool of honey
questioning ideas
that run through his
greyhound strides
the right eye removed
bone white phantom oculus
poached out by a thief
with a pad, pen and
surgically precise knife
drugged on strong catnip
the discarded damaged marble
thrown in a bin overnight
he works his way around
this bad romance
feels the colours of light
he is sensually sincere
licking necks and ears
and the other's eyes
twin forest jade stones
the foreign ponds
of something new
holding tight
this kamikaze pilot
flying across high rise cupboards
treasure boxes to plunder
tricky to navigate
he is immersed in a new life
the changing colours
of a small heart
with big dreams
romancing streams of
rainbow koi seen in his mind
he is a Japanese ninja warrior
a good luck token
protector of Moonlight
and ground zero
the bed…that he has claimed,
all his
and he is loved
perfection in
the damage of
the war zone delivered
to him at birth
he is free to wonder
and he wanders
this brave and distinguished hunter
preying with delight
he bows on all fours
he stops still
and in the reflection
that is left
I look at him
and I see
we are two
of one mind
searching
for the same
all along
am I her’s,
or is she mine
am I his
or is he mine
it no longer matters
old souls
we belong
in this time
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
Opallios. Greek.
“to see a change in colour”
Opalus. Latin.
“precious jewel”
The room withheld its breath. The page kept listening.
The door forgot its knock. Ink waited in the margins.
Secrets filled the cupboards. The ink learned all their names.
Each silence asked a question. Each line refused one answer.
Rain gathered on the windows. The paper blurred its edges.
The house forgot its posture. A comma held the sentence.
A laugh escaped the rafters. A full stop missed its cue.
The sorrow changed its coat. The page refused to choose.
Strangers crossed the afternoon. The ink began to listen.
Each carried half a story. The page supplied a shadow.
Their silences held chapters. The margins turned the pages.
The story lost its ending. The page left it unwritten.
Evening emptied the room. The page kept one chair open.
The walls released their shadows. Ink settled into silence.
No footstep crossed the threshold. The margins made a doorway.
The room remembered its breath. The poem remained awake.
A prayer for those
Whose lives are thin
And shelves devoid of
Bread and tin.
A stronger prayer
For those who stand
With more than enough
In every hand.
For in God's Kingdom
Love is King
And generosity
The trendy thing.
There is no lack
Or chance despair.
No deprivation.
No hunger there.
In God's town..
No cupboards bare.
No hungry child.
No shadow there.
In the City of Angels
No fears you'll find
For hope and joy
Are all refined..
..by hands and feet
Of those who love
And serve the one
true God above.
So come on people!
Come and see
What God can do through you.
Through me.
It's Harvest
And in the Autumn glow
The words of truth are:
"Reap" and "sow"
For heaven need not
be a 'distant place'
If we love our neighbour,
At this time.
In this space.
So here's my prayer;
Dear God above..
Open our hearts
Through the power of Your love
And help us to see, every moment we live,
With the eyes of Your generous Spirit.
Teach us kindness.
Teach us to give.
For the path may be narrow
But our hearts can be wide.
Under God's season of plenty..
..and blessing
No-one can hide.
And in closing I ask
That I never walk by.
That I look that God given task
Square in the eye.
Keep me soft in the heart
Never letting it harden.
That the Eden we seek
Is right here in this garden.
There is a chocolate monster
It’s lurking around my house
Hiding here and hiding there
He’s as quiet as a mouse
The cake and cookies soon disappear
They vanish as if by magic
It is something I mustn’t fear
My depleted cupboards look so tragic
The Haribo sweets were sadly depleted
When I opened the kitchen drawer
Only ten left in the bag, oh I feel defeated!
Oh this monster is beyond the law
But I will miss my monster for soon he will leave
Back off to university he will go
And I will be sad and my shoulders will heave
So I must simply go with the flow
In a few weeks time my sweets will remain
For my son will be oh so far away
I’ll be wishing that he were back here again
Candy will be here when he returns one day
09~27~15
My Monster Contest Sponsored By Anthony Slausen
Snow crested range backdrop, gurgling creek allurement
At long last was the field, ours its loamy splendor
Our fertile paradise beneath stars and thunder
Within this promise, we planted our enchantment
Time sprouted our hearts’ dreams with sunlight reverent
Steadfast home to shelter love through frost December
Joyously nurturing new lives, mild and tender
Yet a caretaker’s heart still yearns for nourishment
Other fields of promise neglected, gone fallow
Harvests left under the merciless sun to spoil
Their once magnificent bounties, cupboards hollow
Tears cannot mend cold ground neglected beyond toil
Their heartbreak, a tragic fate we need not follow
Come tend our garden, my love, till its fertile soil
5/29/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Italian Sonnet, 12 syllables per line
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh I’ve got a secret to tell
I’ll whisper it to you; as I don’t like to yell
I’ve discovered a monster living in my house
It’s very very quiet, as quiet as a mouse
The biscuit tin is empty, not even a single crumb
Yet the packet was brand new, not even undone
All the chocolate is gone, oh what can I do
If I find the culprit I’ll bid him adieu
He invades my fridge when I’m not looking
I’ve not poisoned him yet as he survives my cooking
A miracle has happened since my son returned to university
I’ve not had to keep the kitchen cupboards under lock and key
10~12~14
Contest: Monsters and Marvels
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
~awarded 4th place~
THE SHED
Down there in the shed I know,
There is something that I need.
I haven’t seen it now for ages,
But I know it’ll do the deed.
Whether it's a bit of steel that’s,
Sort of, shaped like this.
Or a little plastic fitting
That’s easy for me to miss.
Each time I clean the shed up,
And put my things away.
I know where I put them,
But this is another day.
My wife, she offers to help
Me to do a decent job.
Make it nice and clean she says,
But that would make me sob.
The things she’d want to throw away.
It’s all good handy stuff.
It’ll be of use one day, but still
She’d try to call my bluff.
No, It’s ok now my dear,
I’ll clean up by myself.
I’ll just put these things over here.
I’ll have to build another shelf.
The trick you see, is to sweep the floor,
And move things round a bit.
Just so you can reach the door,
Without a claustrophobic fit.
The working space is the size I need
Cause that’s all the room I got.
If it was any bigger,
I’d probably lose the bloody lot.
I’ve cupboards full of bits and pieces
And a heap of electric tools.
It’s enough to write a thesis,
On how to make shed owners drool.
But you see it doesn’t really matter,
If the shed is clean or not.
The main thing is you’re happy
In your private little spot.
Cause when you’re in your shed
The world can pass you by.
I hope that when I’m dead,
There’s a shed up in the sky.
---------------------
With cavemen like grunts they extract themselves from their pit
Unable to communicate on a level you can understand …
spouting three letter syllables such as ‘IDK’ and ‘meh’
Eyes red from lack of sleep, but what do they care
Too much time playing on their computers and phones
You worry they don’t interact with ‘real’ friends
Your fridge gets raided; milk is glugged and gulped
Cereals and bread disappear at an alarming rate
When you open your cupboards they are bare
The beast then stumbles into the bathroom
When they finally emerge you gag under a cloud of deodorant
Try asking them a question about what time they will be home …
They react as if you are subjecting them to interrogation
This species is not uncommon – many of us have one in our house
TEENAGERS!
Received N/A in a Contest finalised on 04/05/2016
submitted to second chance#3 sponsored by Broken wings
04~03~16
There was an old lady who lived in a shoe
She was sad and poor and feeling quite blue
So many children, the count was twenty and two
The cupboards were empty, they were really poor
Something needed to be done, the old lady swore
A sign ‘room for rent’ she put on the door
Three little pigs came, the room to rent
One look you could see, murder her intent
Now the freezer is full, no money she spent
The story she spread, the wolf was to blame
Now the poor old wolf has unwanted fame
All due to the old lady, what a terrible shame
~~
my mind takes me back through the tattered pages of my life
to a place of warmth, security and love . . . . .
to my mother's kitchen with its big cupboards and old stove
and a blue teapot on the kitchen table and grandma telling me of life
of people in the family long dead . . .
it was at that same table that I read my first poems while sipping tea
oh! I recall father shovelling snow in winter all bundled up
and a warm fireplace waiting within . . .
then at night in an attic room this little girl was tucked in
with forever loving hands, hugs and kisses . . . .
_______________________________
January 24, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/home of my childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 01-635-607-24
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Entered in the Standard contest, Home Sweet Home
sponsor Skat , Judged 02/2015
Third Place
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a mirror,
Because this so called reflection is not really me.
I think he is a stranger that moved into my house,
For the man that I see is somewhat, ugly.
I think he built this life size window
To spy on everything that I do
And I can tell you he is beginning pissing me off
I can feel my anger’s starting to brew
Once I moved to the side of the window
And he disappeared out of sight
What I could see a part of his room
Gave me an terrible fright
The bugger’s been to the same shop
And bought the same things I have
The bed, cupboards and lamp shades
And on the table he even has the same Sat. Nav.
I peeped into this window
With the hope to catch him off guard
But there he was looking at me
Staring just as hard
I stood in front of the loser and cussed the most colourful words
The monkey aped every action even the moving of his lips
Then it dawned on me that he wore the same clothes
In the same pose with his hands on his hips
So infuriated, I punched the window
And ended his years of peeping tom jeer
However, the bugger is now haunting me
In every glass I happen to peer