Best Down The Stairs Poems
I was changing a tire and the neighbor walked by
Stood and looked a while, then he said Hi
Got a flat? he asked and this made me grin
I said no, just changing the old air and putting new stuff in.
Was coughing and sneezing. My throat was on fire
Got a bad cold? My wife did inquire
No, it's not really bad. It is a good one
I love watery eyes and watching my nose run.
I was on a bus and on my newspaper I sat
The guy next to me asked "Are you reading that"
I said yes. Reading through your butt is all the new rage.
Then I stood up and turned the page.
Dentist hit a nerve and I came up out of the chair
Did that hurt? He asked as though he really did care.
I said no, there was a spiritual woman I used to date
And she was teaching me how to levitate.
I hit a pothole with my car one night
It made such a loud noise it gave my wife a fright
Didn't you see it she began to cry
Of course I did. I hit it. Didn't I.
Once I tripped on one of my little guy's toys
Fell down the stairs and my wife heard the noise
Did you miss a step? She screamed from the hall
I said "No Dear, I think I hit them all."
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
await him.
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."
"In my fragile little ship, I sail, sail
In the tempestuous sea of life
Dodging life's pressures, to doldrums outlast"~ by poet
Breathing in and out the notes of life,
from first cry to last sigh, you sing
you sing.... unbeknownst
unbeknownst to you as to
what tunes and notes of life
you will be singing..
but you keep singing... taking cues
taking cues from the
rhythm of the twirl of time.
As you warble to the ticking of time
sometimes...
a melody is created
and the moment becomes lovely -
when your hum is harmonious to
the rhythm, tempo, and dynamics of life.
Listening to that melody - so sweet,
buds of love and peace bloom straightaway
in vibrant colours
to savour and celebrate
the beautiful moment:
a moment as beautiful
as the sweet smile of a child
and as peaceful as the
stillness of a meditation hall.
At times, your voice cracks
you sing outside the range
hitting the wrong note...
and.........oh........
you slip down the stairs
the last step extending down to
the hassles and hard times of life...
like a banana peel
in an already slippery road,
like a dust in the eye
that blurs your vision,
like that of a Wordle game
that leaves you totally clueless.
Such wrong notes
in your song of life
leave you in dismay
like a torn page in a book:
you get dejected, dispirited, and disheartened
and a confused state of mind follows.
But you know you should not stop
you need to ignore the wrong note you struck
not a wince, blink or a pause..
you have to just move
on and on...
and get your mojo back
to continue carolling
the rest of your notes of life
in accordance to the
rhythm of time...
Date: 02/24/2022
'F' form - Free verse - New - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme Chosen: Life
First Place
Poem Of The Day on 02/24/2022
What might you find there
down deep in my soul
Within the darkness
of that expansive hole
Will there be substance
Will there be diamonds or coal
Step down the stairs quickly
at the door pay your toll
If you wish to be a voyeur
there will be plenty to see
Unclothed and oh so gorgeous
beautiful women are plenty
Yet the guilt from these carnal thoughts
makes me feel a strange empty
I long for their pleasure
yet I yearn to be set free
Walk a bit further
see deeper to my core
You have just scratched the surface
do you really want to see more
My soul is a vast ocean
no ceiling and no floor
Liquid and expansive
molton lava shore to shore
There is plenty of love there
tremendous courage it's true
I have known my share of pain
there is much that I've been through
Roads I've traveled are many
dark alleys quite a few
I've found the way to the light
my heart is forged a steel blue
If you travel far enough
you will bathe within light
The darkness a shield
to protect this soul with might
Beyond the locked door
my soul rises like a kite
Only those who have courage
can fly to such great height!
For Frank's Contest
Nobody knows what goes on behind this hotel door
‘Mr Smith’ isn’t with his wife of that I’m pretty sure!
He’s with his mistress Sue, they are having an affair
But he is a cheating love rat and he doesn’t really care
A barrage of fists is flying at number twenty-two
Sally covers her bruises, what else can she do
Her man is a bully and hits where nobody can see
She’s got no one to turn too otherwise she would flee
Harry is all alone since his dear wife has died
He’s desperately lonely but filled with such pride
His family only live on the other side of the city
But are so busy with their lives, isn’t that a pity
Post builds up in his letter box, there’s milk left at his door
Neighbours think they’ve seen him but they aren’t really sure
The police arrive; break down his door and Harry’s lying dead
He’d fallen down the stairs; dried blood lay round his head
Peter is an alcoholic and he suffers from depression
He has bouts of violence, he’s known for his aggression
Since his wife walked out on him he’s attempted suicide
His life has gone downhill since he lost his lovely bride
Little Sally wants to hide when she sees Phil the baby sitter
He makes her do ‘things’ with him, if she won’t he says he’ll hit her
She’s subjected to sexual abuse that no child should endure
But her parent’s are oblivious when they walk out that door
Nobody really knows what goes on behind closed doors
I wonder would you divulge what happens behind yours?
Doors Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
03~23~17
A pre-lit Christmas tree sparkles the entrance
Monet, Van Gough, and Wassily Kandinsky prints
adorn the walls of her sitting room
a dozen painted roses sit in a faux crystal vase
and the smell of apple pie lingers in the air
coming from her Scentsy candle warmer
resting upon her replica baby grand piano
The seconds tick loudly from the tree house looking cuckoo clock
as I wait
patiently I wait
down the stairs she comes
waltzing ever so gracefully
ever so elegant
in her bright flowing yellow dress
accented by beautiful costume jewelry
my heart skips a beat
as we kiss hello
and I know
yes I know
This love is real
An old house I am led to -it is the symbol of
memories in cobwebs - like those of old lost love.
A storehouse for so many things buried in my mind.
I open up its creaking door to see what I might find.
Lovely notes come waaftng down the stairs to me.
My poor heart tears to hear that poignant melody.
It brings to me the image of one afternoon
when I walked with someone in summer by the dune.
I listen to the tickling of the ivory,
picturing two people splashing each other by the sea.
The music now is drifting to me soft and low.
I see the setting sun. We’re bathed in crimson glow.
Beautifully and slowly the notes keep being played.
In the arms of my old love rhythmically I’m swayed.
The keys of the piano now are pounding fast.
In the moonlight he and I are making love at last.
Finally the keys are played as if they were caressed,
and a bitter sweetness swells within my breast.
Slowly creeping up the stairs I go to learn the truth.
Who has played this long-time buried memory of youth?
On the old piano’s bench, I see an imprint lies,
and I think I can hear my phantom lover’s sighs.
Sweet ghost valentine, will you please return
and play again that melody of love for which I yearn?
Submitted June 26, 2022
for Mark Toney's the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 5' Poetry Contest
Twas the night before Christmas and I was a gasp
at the rumors that filled me with an odious fright.
For Santa Claus was now tired of working for free
and would be harvesting organs well into the night.
He would be looking for kidneys, livers and hearts
as well as others too numerous to mention.
All this was designed to lower his cost of production
and help his Elves with their healthcare and pension.
The reporters reported the disheartening news
that dear Santa had put an end to holiday cheer.
And to lock all our windows and batten the doors
to prevent a Christmas which could end only in tears.
Now the Media's record of telling the truth
was often wrong and extremely spotty at best.
So I had faith in Saint Nick and his message of hope
and would not give in to the lies they address.
So I fell into slumber to awake Christmas morning
and put my trust in the jolly old Elf.
But awoke latter that night when the stomping of hooves
caused several books to fall from the shelf.
Quickly grabbing a candle... I flew down the stairs
to see my tree laden with presents and toys.
As dear Santa had come through with his usual flair
and my trepidation turned to wonder and joy.
So I opened a window and peered through the night
and spotted the old Elf at the head of his sleigh.
I heard him yell from afar as he drove out of sight,
'You should rest in bed for most of the day.'
I pondered his point... unsure what he meant
as my body began to shimmy and shiver.
And as sure as the bells that would ring Christmas morn...
that fat bastard had taken half of my liver.
So as I lay in the bed and considered my stress
and the reason for my tension and plight.
But put it aside... when I realized by giving an organ
I put the spirit of Christmas in a more favorable light.
The End
Night before Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Date: Nov 29/2019
We bound down the stairs, out into the light-of-day, and into the blue of the
misty breezes, heavily laden with the smell of wild sea salt roses that grow in
perfusion along the winding road, that bends and turns in gentle lifts and dips to
the other side of the bay, where it crosses the bridge and rises up and winds
away, over the hill.
Overhead the seagulls screech and glide over the ocean spray that washes on
the rocks on the lower banks behind our house along the Fundy Bay, where we
run like the wind through the fields of fresh cut hay and make our way to the
rocky mantle below .
There in the volcanic plateau, worn smooth as glass by the constant rolling
weight of the ocean, is our pool, known by all in our village, as ‘Lizza’s Bathtub’,
created by the eruption of the earth’s inner core, millennia’s ago.
We slip into the still, salty water that has been warmed beneath the blazing sun,
and float with the perry winkles and tiny crabs and listen to the sound of the
ocean, that roars beneath us as it leaves in the receding tide, while we drift
away, in our minds, my little brother the ‘King’ and I, the ‘Queen’ for a day on
the ‘Fundy Bay’.
It'd been one of the most bizarre days; downright crazy
so I had a martini, maybe four, so things got kinda hazy
I fumbled in my wallet so I could pay my pricey bar tab
Friends thought I had too many, so they put me in a cab
I stumbled up the steps. It seems walking was a chore
Couldn't find my key, so I tried beating down the door
Her screeches of "Where the bloody hell have ya been?"
Pounded in my head, making me sorry that I'd come in.
She hissed, then off to the kitchen she foolishly prattled
With horrendous noises, pots and pans were being rattled
My head was sorely throbbing so I begged her to be quiet
She screamed, "Don't yell at me! Blame your liquid diet!"
She banged a bowl of something down on the table cloth.
I weaved my way to a chair as my mouth began to froth
Put my head in my hands when the room started spinning
Caught a glimpse of that evil woman. Yeah, she was grinning
A mound of muck she'd plunked down right in front of me
looked like it should still be swimming in the salty sea
It smelled vile and disgusting... nauseatingly atrocious
I gagged and turned away, that's when Liz became ferocious
I couldn't move an inch to find my way back to the couch
I was a brick, held by mortar. My wife was being a grouch
but I couldn't find the strength to flee. I felt far too dizzy
My turn to shout, "Can you just stop your naggin', Lizzie?"
I didn't mean to say it, and my words came out so slurred
My vision was fuzzy. Everything was clouded and blurred
Something was staring up at me while awful music played
That's when I saw green heads and grew appallingly afraid
Whether fantasy or reality, frogs had escaped from a pond
These were fugly creatures. From evil they'd been spawned
I was being serenaded by a quartet of deep croaking voices
So suffers the drunken man while his heartless wife rejoices
I crawled to bed when I couldn't take the harmony any more
Lizzie punched me and said, "Wake up if you're gonna snore."
I tripped down the stairs, woke the dog and made him bark
Left the wife and found a bench to sleep it off in the park
*NOTE: Jack and I wonder how many of you have heard of the Zona Shue case –
an American murder victim who had revenge in Virginia in the late 1800s.
Zona was killed by her husband, Edward Shue, who then took elaborate steps to
cover his crime. In an attempt to disguise Zona’s broken neck, Edward dressed her
corpse in a scarf and high necked dress, stuffed her coffin with pillows (to support
her vertebrae) and refused to allow even the doctor near the body.
However, Zona appeared to her mother and revealed the truth. Following
exhumation and an autopsy, Edward was found guilty of murder. It was the only
case in American history where information provided by a ghostly apparition was
admitted as evidence for consideration by jurors.
Jack and I are co-sponsoring a contest on ghost poems. Our co-write "A Ghost's
Testimony" below will give you an idea what we're seeking in entries.
"A Ghost's Testimony"
"She must have fallen down the stairs:
A tragic accident," he said.
"I've washed her body, laid her out -
Oh, Doctor Knapp, my Zona's dead!"
"No accident! Shue broke my neck.
Mother, please hear my ghostly plea.
Take him to court and make him pay;
It's murder in the first degree."
“I’ve dressed her in her high necked frock…
Thought pillows by her neck looked fine…
She’d want to wear this scarf,” he wept.
“But no one touch the corpse - she’s mine!”
"Thanks, Mom, for bringing this to court.
The autopsy was not done right!
With malice Shue cut my life short.
Exhume my body; shed some light."
“Her mother wants to see me hang,
But she can’t prove my guilt,” he fumed.
“She claims the body sheet turned red,
And wants to have my wife exhumed.”
"The judge disagreed and allowed
My spirit world testimony.
Shue, my killer, was not so proud;
A death in jail for this phony!"
If you are reading "the Adventures of Soda Pop" for the first time, read the first in the series and the story will make more sense. I hope you enjoy.
Ricky ran up the stairs to go to his room to prepare for the days fun. He put on his favorite pair of jeans and a western shirt with pearl buttons. From under his bed he pulled out a leather gun belt that held two cap guns. (apparently the monsters vacate the space under the bed during the day) As he strapped the belt around his waist, I could tell he liked how it felt on his hips. Ricky took one of the guns out of the holster and placed it back under the bed. At first I wondered why and before I knew it Ricky placed me upsidedown in the holster. I liked how the leather held me firmly in place, luckily I had been corked or Ricky would have been wearing purple instead of blue jeans. Ricky then started rummaging through his closet looking for his Daisy BB gun. After a few moments of searching he was happily holding it in his little hands. He shook it and I could hear the BBs rolling around inside the gun.
As Ricky walked down the stairs I could feel his imagination taking hold. Ricky felt as tall and powerful as any real cowboy. There was a certain coolness in his stride, if he had had on some cowboy boots instead of his black canvas runners, the picture would have been perfect. Ricky went into the kitchen to find Roy and Teresa, Mrs. Burns told him they had already left with some friends. No worries after all today Ricky was the "Lone Ranger" and I was Tonto! The adventure could begin.
Its 6 am
And that bloddy alarm goes off again.
Just another half an hour I plead,
But the alarm doesn't listen, the alarm doesn't heed.
Washed and dressed, reluctantly I head for my car,
A 20 minute drive, work is not very far.
The parking gods are good and I get a space
Right by the front door, my favourite place!
A smile on my face I sprint up the stairs,
Today will be good, no worries or cares.
"I want these figures and I want them now!
And these I want yesterday and don't ask me how!"
Do this, do that and for goodness sake hurry,
Am I going to be fired? I'm beggining to worry.
Its 4 pm and I plod down the stairs
My smile long gone but nobody cares
Home at last, I kick at the door
Feet up, hair down, pick up mail form the floor.
Thats my car in that photo, whats this all about?
A speeding ticket "I don't believe it" my husband hears me shout
I wish this dire day would come to an end
Shattered nerves need sleep time to mend
But all too soon
Its 6 am
And that bloody alarm goes off again.
DMoran 2012
t
Many years it had been since Sir Heathcliffe was home,
He had travelled in countries abroad;
He left in his grief at the death of his wife
While he wrestled with sorrow and God.
He had been round the world, and his troubles had too,
And the thought of his daughter was one:
He dreamed yesternight of her eyes greyish-blue,
And he cried, "Heavens, what have I done?!"
Thus it was that he stood at his very own gate,
Yet unknown to his daughter within;
And he prayed, "Lord, I hope that I've not come too late!
That she lived while away I have been."
First she opened the door and she bobbed down the stairs,
Then she skipped with a smile down the walk,
No thought all the while of her father's shocked stares
Till she stopped with her hand on the lock;
Then she covered her lips and she whispered, "Oh, my!
You're the man on the mantel for sure!
I've asked for ten years, but without a reply
Who the man and the pretty girl were."
And he said, "I'm your father who's been gone so long,
And that angel, your mother who died:
Forgive me for leaving, I realise 'twas wrong;"
And he could not go on, but he cried.
For he looked right into eyes of pale greyish-blue,
And he felt the same rush of surprise
As when years, years ago, with a pair that he knew,
"There's an angel," he said, "in your eyes."
Then she opened the gate, and they fondly embraced
In a place where a young couple kissed;
It was then all the pain of the years was erased,
And the guilt of the life he had missed.
"One angel," said he, "went away from my eyes,
But the other, I left of my own;
Till the day that I go to my bride in the skies
You will never again be alone."
~Written by Isaiah Zerbst on October 11th, 2013~