Best Doorknobs Poems
Dawn arrives wet with dew~
our fingers weave dandelion chains
around the handles of baskets,
strawberry jam jars, old tin pails~
anything that will hold the weight
of violets crushed against mint.
We tiptoe past sleeping porches,
leave them on doorknobs,
on steps where the wood still remembers
last night’s rain.
No one sees us~
that’s the rule.
But the baskets hum
with secrets May Day
can’t keep.
you may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/may_baskets_13608
There once was a man who loved garlic dill
Holding them in his hand gave him a thrill
Doorknobs are fermented
With garlic tormented
His wallet and all of his precious bills
Our fingerprints leaves our identity
On walls, doorknobs, books, all around
Each touch an impossible escape
Challenging me to face each reality
Compassion and kindness be abound
As good heartprints, my great break
Thus, they can never be use as "mask"
To disguise my fingerprints' touch
To a daughter, friend or neighbor
Hence, when someone there dares to ask
Even obviate to commit a prejudge
Real love heartprints - my labor
Our fingerprints leaves our identity
Thus, they can never be use as mask
by
olive eloisa
2:00 AM
04/07/2014
CONTEST: ANY POEM #22
SPONSOR: POET DESTROYER A
7TH PLACE
Soon the sun will shine
Through the east facing blinds
I haven't worked in seven months
Yet, I rise every day before him
And write a poem or two
The ceiling fan wobbles
Finches, sparrows and a cooing dove
Greet the dawn
Sweet morning love
Best time for me
Should be waking up in cooler climes
Shoulda been coulda been woulda been
Gone by now
But for this old house
Drug off a mountain top
From a mining camp
That got scraped away
And dumped across the highway
Miner's shack really
Bought it for about
One year's teaching salary
In 1995
Kept all its 100 year old doors
Crystal doorknobs and skeleton key locks
Stripped away the lath and plaster
Took out some walls, moved another
Replummed, rewired
Refinished wood floors
Put down some maple
Added on some rooms
Guarded it all with white pickets
It has it's charm
Why I fought to keep it
Quit my job in Vegas
Retired altogether
So I could stay here
I don't know
Funny like that
Usually don't care
Pretty good at it
But this old house in this old town
I do
Although right now I wish I were
Dwellung somewhere north
Grand Tetons,Yellowstone, Glacier
Somewhere cold
Got my eldest daughter in Montana
But I'm here near my youngest
And her baby
Son just got back from Kuwait
He and my favorite daughter in law
Coming to visit from NY
Wants her dad here for barbeque Wednesday
Golf, then dinner out and a pub crawl Thursday
She's good to my son--good to everyone really
Si she gets what she wants
I'll put a shine on the place
Marinate a prime rib for the big easy
Buy her tequila, his whiskey, some beer
And get a tee time
I'm happy
I could be snuggled up in the cold
On a pine scented morning
Be fishing before the sun hits the water
But no one would come see me
Guess I'd fight again
For this old house
Sun's beating the blinds
It's garbage day
Gotta drag out the bin
Two whole bags
Higher trash fee now than
When the house was full
(Sigh)
take an interest in my broken heart
recycle the parts and discover what is really there
you may find that what is unwanted may be exactly what you need
there are several doorknobs within the body
there are several knocks of possible anticipation
yet and still the steps that are stomped are so strong and determined
there could be a flower growing in the center of your direct view....unseen
a fully clothed eye is like vulnerabilty in the heart of a heatwave
the sweat that you emit may indeed blind your sense of unbiased judgement
take an interest in my broken heart
reassemble and rearrange the parts while discovering you really care
what lurks behind the shadows takes refuge in the
places that one cannot speak without a lawyer and
a place to stay when the going gets rough in the
shadows right out there buried & bustling without
restraint without subjection to the parameters in
which the most of us dwell & operate so obediently
on a daily basis throughout the utter insane boring
mundane nature of everyday existence & whether
or not you yourself choose to abide by these lines
drawn round your own individual life is of course
no one’s decision but your own but know that the
crayons in your hand are your own crayons and
there is no one alive who can make you color within
the lines if you feel that you don’t want to there is
no force out there that can make you sharpen the tip
with the convenient little crayon-sharpener that
resides on the back of the crayola box & of course
there’s no one out there who can make you draw on
lined paper, graphed paper, or even construction
paper for that matter if you want to you have the
right to draw all over everything around you the
chair you are sitting in the walls the floor the
pavement outside all over your clothes the windows
as you walk down the street the street itself because
who is going to stop you the worse that will happen
is that they will smack a label on you and lock you
up somewhere where the first thing that they will
do is pump you full of free drugs and place you in
a craft room anyway where you will receive a
pile of crayons and the whole process will start all
over again fear not those that want you to use your
crayons “correctly” for they cannot truly harm you
they can only wish silently inside themselves where
they think that all their little secrets stay hidden
that they could be just exactly like you and live in
the moment coloring whatever you feel like with
these beautiful crayons and leave the rest of life
alone to its beautiful shadows its wondrous “liars”
& “cheaters” & “thieves” & “murderers” & folks
that never for a second agreed to live by anyone else’s
rules except their own who let the untalented
uninteresting doorknobs of history decide in their
wake their value to society.
The doorknobs of fame in
Brilliant discoveries that
Highlight the moonbeams
Tomorrow tastes like broken hearts
Pickling in a Las Vegas casino
One more card
For shame
But the dog is at home with fleas
And there's no work on Saturdays
No play either
Just roomfuls of laundry
And an eviction notice
Drunken crying counts as a disturbance
Bras don't hang on doorknobs
Or even women for that matter
It's a cold, lonely kitchen
And the forks are all rusted
Two in the morning
No windows
The man a chair over
Just took off his wedding band
And the barmaid stopped refills
Feeling bored, I opened a golden door…
Just one of the countless that is within my reach
No keys needed, just this amazing stack of books…
It’s actually like a staircase, that leads
to worlds both familiar and unfamiliar
taking, whisking me away for hours, days,
even years.
I step into the pages and immerse myself
in wonder, in beauty
of words woven, to create this amazing tapestry
that enfolds my being,
that plucks at my mind,
that tugs at my heartstrings
I plunge deep, refusing to take a break
so entranced am I in living others’ lives
that I forget my own
even just for a while…
A means for me to escape
this world
which can be harsh, cold and overbearing
Although the worlds behind these doors
may be unknown to me as well,
I turn those doorknobs with delight
for I know that no matter what happens
I can always just go back
and race out that door
and straight to reality.
But that rarely happens…
for I am a dreamer.
And these golden doors,
may they never be locked
For them to be shut forever
would be death for me.
** August 12, 2010 :)
written for Constance’s Scavenger Hunt contest
This was inspired by her beautiful poem, A Book is Like a Golden Door
My brother is a spirit
His shadow haunts the walls
I've heard him in the midnight hour
Walking through the hall
I've seen him turning doorknobs
I've heard him rattle chains
I've heard him moaning ghostly songs
That sing of past remains
I've felt him in the dark of night
I've shivered from the cold
I've felt him reaching out to me
To find someone to hold
Through misty dreams I've heard his voice
Calling out to me
Beckoning to reach my hand
And set my spirit free
But I refrain and I remain
Adrift on solid ground
Wondering if this could be
My long lost brother found
Rockman
When I was young, we learned the drill
On how to cough; I do it still
Until my brain gives me a nudge,
Reminding me that others judge.
For I was taught to cough in hand
So that’s where all the germs would land
Instead of floating in the air
To be breathed in by others there.
We never thought about the fact
That all those germs would stay intact
Contaminating all we touch
Like doorknobs, subway poles and such.
And back when we lived pre-Purell,
Bacteria we would expel
Would coat our palms, a big mistake
If someone gave his hand to shake.
Today, to keep us off the hook
Our coughs should go into the crook
That’s formed by having elbows bent;
The spread of germs this might prevent.
Just one thing isn’t really clear.
If to this tactic, folks adhere
Then why are colds still being caught?
So many sleeves be-germed for naught!
when was it
the sadness?
did I tell you to forget it
or was it just like the burden
of a thinking man
that thinks before and after
he speaks
who has to open doors without
doorknobs
and when did I realize that everyone
was not as far away
as i
and began to feel that
awful alone
the stranger in a crowd of
friends
it is an alien world
that keeps me here
and understand
please understand
i often crave
the grave of alone
for it is there
among screams that travel
unnoticed to you, lover,
that i must create rains
for uneasy volcanoes
and it’s no fault of anyone
this quiet torment
that forces pen to paper
that sports thought too
sharp to be accepted
it’s no wonder
i am cut within
for i have accepted what others
call impossible
please, my lover, my
other alone
it’s a wall i must destroy
oh god
perhaps it is hard for you
to understand it all
at times i wish i were
ignorant
full of blind passion
with no-one to bother
i want you
to know me all
and i know you cannot
and i cannot
but i will never let go
for it is beauty
and beauty with neglect
grows cold
like an unfed fire
i cannot hide my mind
and yet
the bars i see about me
are perhaps bars
to keep me out
from understanding the
simpler things
the quiet things
the peaceful.
yes, i am a hard man
who wants all that is
near impossible
who spreads himself free
among so many habitual ideas
and it is hard
for me
for you
to break so many habits
to bring so many tears
but what can I do
my woman
but tell you that the love
is there
in places left silent
there is that singular you
and everything to share
not drugs
not words
but minds
perhaps i never lived
inside
but always existed
outside you
and its not enough to say
“all right”
but to say
“we’ll try.”
copyright 1972 Joseph Adler
bracelets on doorknobs
ectoplasmical goo on the floor
chanting tinkling music
lifeless creatures arranged in a circle
round a book of verse
curtains yanked from their moorings
broken glass
muddy footprint trail
undecipherable writings on the wall
books ripped apart, their pages floating on the air
drawers open their contents vomited out
closets spilling everything
all about chaos and mayhem reign in dizzying derision
What's happening?
Poltergeist or spell,
Which is it?
It's just my darling granddaughter here for a visit!
In many states across this land
I've heard his eerie yell
I've seen and heard his company
Not many folks i'd tell
I've heard his footsteps through the woods
And had him follow near
I never knew quite what he wants
I think he feeds on fear
I've had him rattle doorknobs
Just like he wanted in
But knowing of his strength and size
A door is paper thin
I've saw those red eyes glare at me
And smelled his awful stentch
I've even found his footprints 'round
And some hair left on a fence
He's been so close i've heard him breathe
He's had me frozen hard
I've also saw him take three steps
And be across the yard
I've seen them young, and seen them old
And seen them come in groups
And once outside my windowsill
I found some sasquatch poop
I'm yet to see his face close up
But that's alright with me
I've seen and heard enough of him
I just hope he lets me be.
Like orbs from other galaxies
They float
Clutching at air to scout out
Another host
An unwelcome visit
Vulture like
And unforgiving,
Photos etched into memories
Appear moment by moment,
The internet engraves
The virus
Into the minds of all...
And now we ponder
Supreme inevitability
As we wipe the grocery stores clean,
Buffering
Against what is to come
Waiting behind Lysol scrubbed doorknobs
As yesterday’s hum of humanity
Becomes a new sound of silence.