Best Feather Bed Poems
Daydreaming of you is all I seem to do.
Staring at your picture on my computer screen, wishing you were here staring back at me.
Your my computer love, my secret crush.
Leaving me in an intoxicating lush, your body I desperately lust.
If I can get to you through my computer screen, I will be able to show you exactly what I mean.
Long days and long nights of communication with you, helps me fantasize and make my dreams truer.
Love scenes play in my head, love scenes upon a fluffy feather bed.
I am dressed in all white, as if this was our wedding night.
You shirtless and touching me just right.
Delicate biting invited sweet kisses.
Deep staring makes my eyes glisten, and vigilant in guarding a possession.
As the intermittent gleams sparkling, makes the moon and the stars jealous.
I shine my twinkling smile; the thoughts of you are so worthwhile.
So in love with your artistic style, I am leaving your picture as my computer background.
Being your virtual girl, I want to exist in your world.
Hypothetically speaking simply coexisting, sadly admitting we are only acquaintance.
Forever my computer love fantasy boy toy, I deploy.
Fore dreams are all I have of you, in reality I could never have you.
I just cannot seem to delete my computer files of you so…
Until the day we really make love, you shall remain my computer love.
With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
to country, folk and beautiful soft rock was drawn.
“Take Me Home Country Road” made him a star.
What lovely songs for nature he strummed on his guitar!
With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
became a 70’s phenomenon.
To tunes like “Grandma’s Feather Bed” and “Annie’s Song”
his fans would listen and sing along.
With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
crashed his plane one day, and in an instant he was gone.
His art lives on even though no longer can he roam.
How apt his autobiography’s name: Take Me Home.
Dec. 29, 2020
For Brian Strand's the 'YOU SELECT AGAIN' Poetry Contest
Light dances with the idea of love
the sharks circle at mere plight
of weakness but you cant kick out
a ballerina tiptoeing across rivers
red flowing with contemplation
and the final twin feather bed calling
Tomorrow's successes seduce
the captain's chair empty
he's gone out for air
backed up pickup but the limbs won't move
just need another reason for loving you
The walls are built by more than just an emperor
The chains are laced in verse of discrimination
but I'm building a bridge to you
just don't jump and leave us to clean up behind
and as the cock crows it's going to be alright
As I rise from this comfortable feather bed,
I peer out a window and shake my head.
Relinquishing the grip of last night’s sleep,
rubbing my eyes to the kitchen I creep.
I see the old kettle that she used to make tea,
we would go drink it under the old willow tree.
We use to laugh and play and swim in the lake
and, I remember the summer she taught me to bake.
Always loving comforting and warm to my soul,
I remember she loved to fish in her pond by the knoll.
I close my eyes and I start to tear.
I can feel her presence and her voice I still hear.
My mother always told me to stop being a tomboy and act like a lady.
She would whisper to me, “I know best and you’re perfect Katy.”
Not long ago I noticed she slowed way down.
I was sad and she noticed me and, my frown.
Be of good cheer she scolded me,
I’m going home and, with god, I will be.
She passed from this world with a smiling face.
I whispered to her, “I’ll see you again Grandmother in that better place.”
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
It made me mad; I wished she was dead.
Took my anger to my Uncle Ned.
He started laughing, happy instead.
Most serious now, sick in my head,
Ran to my cousin, Goofball named Zed.
He chased me off, his face spitball of red.
With laughter shaking his feather bed.
I decided to sit in my little she-shed.
Devoured Ritz crackers ‘til I was fed.
Refused to talk to my Uncle Ted.
Who was spitting a story about Brother Ed.
I rode off on my purple and pink Moped.
Had an accident, needed bandage and a med.
The nurse who helped me was named Mrs. Ked.
Beautiful, she was a recent newlywed.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
I was shocked for a second, but then I read
A book, settled down, no longer in my head.
Seeing the humor of Ed, Zed, Ned and Ted.
Been travelin' the country side,
punchin' cows and makin' my way,
Been weeks lookin' at cattle hide,
hotter than _ell 'n' not much pay,
It's up and at'em before dawn,
on a horse and saddle all day,
Money made, then gets gone,
with drinkin' and cards ta play,
Ain't seen my dear girl Betsy Lou,
for might near a year ta day,
I know someday gonna get back to,
her and her country girl ways,
Yea, we're gonna buy a spread,
something to call our own,
I'm gonna buy her a feather bed,
and never ever agin be gone,
On the trail means livin' rough,
it's a life what gets so old,
If cow punchin' cash ain't enough,
It's to California pannin' fer gold.
I’m following the country road I learned to drive on
the old green ford truck, black rusty stick shift,
hand carved wooden blocks on my feet.
I glimpse a cane pole pulling a trophy from a small pond,
The low branches of a weeping willows
sweeping the ground like a broom,
laughter, innocent, young, still free, I look toward the sound,
sliding down a red, rusty, tin roof on a worn old barn
into a pile of fresh turned hay!
Through the mist I can see her
Swaying as she walks along the tree line
Humming a song she learnt as a babe
black berry stained face and a bucket half empty.
A scream guided me to a new day
she’s running up a Mulberry tree - stick in hand
a black and white Hampshire boar is displeased.
A grinding noise coming from where the old house lay
a devious smile as her finger lifted the ice cream freezer seal.
The rooster with red, green and gold starting his morning crow
taking the eggs as she kicked him avoiding his spurs.
She’s older now - on a white and tan spotted horse called Sparky
with giant hooves for kicking when the spring breaks.
Mocking her hero, bib overalls, an engineers hat, black rubber boots
shoveling quickly as the grain poured into the bed of the big red truck.
A crushed velvet chair with a sunken place on the arm where
she sat year after year and her ever growing weight.
It’s where she learned to sew - and sow she did imaginary things.
Mmmm, pies and cakes, wiping the flour off her nose!
Such hugs and happiness and youthful smiles
full of innocence and full of faith.
Driving across the brown and red rocks of the clear water creek
running, jumping in the cool deep welcoming pool.
Falling in the feather bed letting her body sink down and down
into the sun dried cloud of white fluffy comfort.
The wheels just keep on turning and turning,
within the moment of this memories journey.
The Climate Changed
"You were the sun
Once I was perihelion
Now you are aphelion!"
Sang the perihelion of planet earth
In low baritones
What is the perihelion of planet earth to do now?
A pointless POINT
Wandering in a void
Year 2021
The planet earth is all but
Gone`
The last climate change summit
Was in year 2020!
At the top of the mahogany table
Sat Emperor Trumpet!
Trumpet meant a big fart,
In Cambridge dictionary
But its meaning had changed now
It meant the last Emperor.
Back to my story:
At the top of mahogany
Table sat Emperor Trumpet!
Climate change is a fiction
A rumour, a treason
Spread by my foes
The heathens:
The Jews, the Turks, the Hispanics, the other sex what I call whoes
The English the French the Democrats
Let us teach a lesson to all those
Heathens
Let us ignore their pleas
The Trumpetlings who sat all around him cheered
Twisting their crimson necks!
And serpantine, slime green tongues!
They lined up to kiss his ruby ring
Sat on his crow like finger:
The middle finger which became a conundrum
For ornithologists all around the globe
For years to come
All the while the great fart hissed
And twisted his serpantine tongue
Poison green in hue!
Spitting slime
all the time!
So the great fart was sleeping in his feather bed
(A loud snore);
The bed feathered by his slaves: the Turks the Hispanics the democrats the English
The other sex what he called whoes,
When a great molten came down and
Swollowed the planet earth;
In one big gulp
The humans, the animals the trees
The fine bridges, the intricate monuments;
All but gone now!
The sole survivor is a perihelion;
Lonely as a lost lamb,
Singing melancholy songs
To her old flame
Her greatest love once!
"You were the sun
Once I was perihelion
Now you are aphelion"
The only love song to
have survived!
A narrow path heading off into the woods
enticed me from familiar road, that afternoon.
A startled fawn dashed by me without sound,
the silence disturbed only by unknown bird’s sweet tune.
Why had I not noticed this lovely place before,
passing by it daily on my habitual jog?
I admired its natural beauty as carefully
I arranged my heavy jacket for seat by fallen log.
I opened virgin pages of my poetry notebook,
expecting inspiration to fill them to the brim.
I looked for the caroler whose notes had filled the air.
Other birds had gathered, singing along with him.
The air was still and warm. I could feel my eyelids droop,
and could hear the droning of a hundred thousand bees.
I laid my head upon the log, as soft as feather bed,
in perfection of the moment, I threw worries to the breeze.
Jerking suddenly awake, I saw the sun had dimmed.
It was much lower in the sky, for dinner I’d be late.
My family would be hungry and perhaps a little worried.
They knew it was unlike me to ever make them wait.
Much to my astonishment, my notebook had been filled,
while I could not remember writing a solitary line.
There were poems with pretty phrases and delightful metaphors.
I recognized not one of them, the writing wasn’t mine.
The next morning on my jog, I looked for the pretty place,
but simply couldn’t find it though I slowed my walk to see.
I have my well-filled notebook to prove that it was there,
the little bit of Heaven that was once revealed to me.
Sometimes when i say goodbye.
I wonder how I hold it togather befor
the phone touches the reciever.
Does she know the pain I mask.
Memories make us drunk with emotion.
Time makes us bitter from the cold.
And in the darkness she brings light.
Under the ice she creates warmth.
She kisses the past away.
My shelter in which to run
If I choose to lead so does she follow.
Two halfs of one heart.
Weve walked across broken glass to lay
in a feather bed.
The nights passionet flow
her head apon my chest.
And how could I find one so perfect for me.
Distance takes the heart and traces the tear.
Such comfort brought from the understanding.
That pain would be erased if she were here.
Jules i see that next day as a promise
set in stone.
That from that first hello
we found in one another a reason to never be alone.
The highway rolls into the horizen
eternal is the love.
As a sun sets apon the ocean we stand
my arms wrapped around you waves crash into the shore.
In love I give everything.
For i could spend a lifetime here with you.
And still thirst for more.
With words we struggle to say.
What flows from the pen.
Also bleeds form the soul and that
shall never go away.
Dedicated To Jules honey sometimes not even the page can say
all that heart holds
Love always John Patrick Robbins
What The Farmer Truly Lives For
I
Across the low hills misty meadows glow,
devilishly hiding gleaming rainbows.
Today earth shines true as yawning dawn wakes,
as from nights cold, Nature gives it quick shakes
releasing powers, from its nighttime breaks.
II
From his feather bed and cozy farm home
he rises, work to do no time to roam.
As coffee percolates, plans each hour,
jumping into morn's steaming hot shower
thankful God gave him life and this power!
III
In begging fields he works to life uplift
with mind, muscle and brawn a blessed gift.
Ever mindful of duty, its high cost,
great sacrifices, harvests he lost
due to Nature's wrath and its killing frosts.
IV
As sun sets, he looks up at the blue skies
thanks his Lord for all, with tears in his eyes.
To home and hearth, those he truly lives for,
again giving thanks, asking for no more
he knows life is love,and Heaven keeps score!
V
Across the low hills misty meadows glow,
devilishly hiding gleaming rainbows.
Today earth shines true as yawning dawn wakes,
as from nights cold, Nature gives it quick shakes
releasing powers, from its nighttime breaks.
R.J. Lindley,
June 11th, 1978
Rhyme, Tribute to farmers and farm families -( A Farmer's Long Day)
Solo Flight
Solo Flight
I’m going solo, next time round,
*Cause no brave knight, have I found.*
Who’s good enough, to rest his head,
Upon my silken, feather, bed?
I’m going solo, with no reservation,
Without maybes, buts, or procrastination.
I’ll seek some alternative recreation,
On which to channel, my frustration.
In which to put my soul and heart,
like psychology, law, or Egyptian art!
With me, mankind would one giant step forward~~~~leap,
Or maybe, I’ll just go back to sleep.
Tomorrow’s another day, to start over,
Relentlessly seeking my four-leaf clover!
REST
To rest awhile now
In a feather bed so warm
Awakens fowl deeds.
Playing on Grandma’s feather bed
I saw it shred
Knew I’d been had
Spanking by Dad
Birds of a feather, as they say
Steps in Big “J”
Gave Dad a chop
Asked him to stop
Remembering that incident
And how thing went
“J” gets for that
Feather in hat
Submitted by: Charles Sides
For the “Just A Minute” contest
Posted: 10/12/2012
I think that I’ll try to write one of those poems that doesn’t rhyme,
The poems that I like to write tend to rhyme all the time.
Oops, not a very good start.
Be creative. Be descriptive.
Use flower scented words that escape from the reader’s strawberry stained lips like soft
snowflakes on a still winter morn and hang in the air like a single feathery sword from the
deliciously soft down pillow on grandmother’s feather bed after a playful tussle with my
angelic son.
Oh yeah, that works … Not.
A subject. I need a subject.
Think, think, think.
Something that would be interesting to read. Or something that is witty and funny – laughter
is always good. Or something that makes people think and ponder and put their finger to
their chin and go, “Mmmmm”.
I usually read these kind of poems and can’t figure them out,
I am left wondering what the heck I just read about.
Hey, that rhyme was a mistake – it happened on its own.
Oh, who am I kidding, I can’t write this kind of poem!
It’s hard being old-fashioned. But, hey, that’s who I am. Besides, no one ever reads my
poems anyway. I’ll bet you are not even reading it now.
So much for the witty humor – bet you didn’t even notice it.
Oh well, think I’ll go write a poem – one that rhymes.