Best Furnishings Poems
An anomaly in furnishings, I was;
so avant-garde, I triggered smiles and buzz.
Not like baroque, ornate styles of the past,
my bona fide remake was made to last.
A cacophony of patterns- deja vu,
brought slow ennui; now time for something new.
With full carte blanche, my sharper look emerged.
Sparked by elan, my modern era surged.
Some called my offbeat stylists dilettante-
but, retro styles are still on lists of wants.
January 16, 2018
Contest No 1167 Poetry Contest,
Sponsored by Brian Strand
I have dreams and high hopes for the coming new year.
Many aspirations that I must achieve with true ease.
When this year ends and all the madness does cease
I shall bring forth good will without dread nor fear.
O, I shall fall to my knees and love without displease.
Can I be the one to make a difference?
May I take away all life’s sufferance.
My house has needed much improved alteration.
I should paint rooms here and there without complaint.
I know I would enjoy my living space if acquaint
with my new furnishings of my own creative creation.
I shall show myself I can be handy without restraint.
Can I be the one to transform the earth?
May I show myself my treasured worth.
I pray I can take time just for me to write poetry
more often so I can feel the comfort I used to feel.
For writing has always been the only way I heal,
I can only save myself from disdain and misery.
O, I must show my mind my gifts can be ideal.
Can I be the one to express my soul?
May I try my best to fill my heart whole.
I shall begin to bestow kindness more unto family
so that they can understand how I feel so abate.
May I love without hate and genuine joy create,
showing how much I appreciate unconditionally.
O, in multitude of faith and joy may I saturate.
Can I be the one who shows I can be me?
May I show God just how beautiful I can be.
Soon It Will Be 2019
December 22, 2018
Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
It is such great unity
That appears amongst the beauty
Of the bright light display?
Such colour, such energy within celebration,
Such a vivid canvas of man-made creation
That sparks with flair and passion;
To fall into the fog
Like all dying illusions.
Yet it is what it does for us:
Where we are drawn from our furnishings
That we clean in intervals,
Closing outside to a regular schedule,
Remaining well lit and sheltered
Resting our minds so dimly upon the
Soft and empty cushions
And hugging at the blind comfort
Of cover.
We are drawn from this facade
By another in itself.
Which brings us out like a beacon
Part Devil, half Eden
To then fade away
Like all illusions,
Leaving us quiet,
Revealing deepened images.
Exposed to chill
Peace climbs through our bones.
Let us stand together,
Embrace
The great power that connects us;
The great unity
Amongst such beauty.
Till we once more return home…
Oh, my, how excited, elated, I would be
to receive sudden financial prosperity.
The true appeal would not be the tangible
but the freedom I have longed to handle.
It is so easy and fun to imagine
the idyllic dream-cottage I would fashion.
If my pen and intent have successful flair,
Perhaps I can transport us all there.
One super, great thing about my new home
is the location in a unique, universal zone,
where society, by law, must leave me alone
and never again cause me or mine to groan.
First, I’d hand my home dreams to Thomas Kinkade
whose involvement my enthusiasm would persuade.
He would build my perfect cottage in a glade;
quaint goose bump appeal with each modern update.
Country, antique and Quaker furnishings throughout
would be joyously bought using my new clout.
I would slowly decorate within and without -
extend the thrill, I would without a doubt.
A Walt-Disney-mind will fashion green grounds
over which perfect billowing clouds will abound.
Cute, gleeful birds will provide uplifting sounds
and precious flowers will pop color all around.
Somewhere on my lush, beautiful property
will be awesome fun for others and me;
ATVs, a bowling alley and bumper cars;
a racquetball court where everyone stars;
a baseball field where rivalry will spar;
an inviting lake twinkling beneath the stars
where fishing and swimming are never barred;
and, a babbling brook playing nature’s guitar.
Every morning will wondrously begin.
Before any voice has even spoken,
a gorgeous song will be piped in,
Cat Steven’s singing, “Morning Has Broken.”
What if there was a passage way down to the ocean
Tucked away within the wall an eroded cave
Cool breeze always in motion as azure, Turquoise Ocean swirls
Breathing in deep reflecting a show of rainbow mist as waves break the cliff face
A cave perfect for a dining room full of stunning unremarkable furnishings
White cotton linens, accent with fresh-cut blooms, and small center table lamps
Pale turquoise ribbon fastening place settings and napkins
Dinnerware and dishes embossed shells and starfish dusted in sandy bronze
Swim in a sea of pale turquoise
Providing guest with genuine friendly, welcoming staff
Chef de cuisine creating a gourmet menu of incredibly fresh ocean delicacies
I'd call it " A Touch of Ocean Breeze"
Prices that everyone can afford;
Fried or
clams, stuff with c
Fried shrimp r
a
@ b
m
e
Salmon, Clam a
chowder, Tuna, t
Lobster
Oysters
Varity of wines
So much more
Pleasant and accommodating
You won’t be disappointed
9/28/2016
My imaginary restaurant - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Weary, sluggish and silent with apathy and
disinterest, I sullenly reflect and
languish....
My thoughts—thick and heavy like
molasses—painfully churn and swirl in
and out of my head and spill against the
background of dead silence of my living
room....
They are in constant motion, while I sit in
the living room mute and gagged and bound
with the world-weariness of a lifetime and
stare blankly into empty space by looking
inward....
Even the furnishings around me defer to
my now sullen mood. Not saying a word
and bowing their heads, they hold their
tongues and keep their thoughts to them-
selves out of respect and deference for my
silent and solemn doldrums....
The flat-panel TV, otherwise always on
and hyper-gregarious, for once regards my
sullenness and apathy with its own....
I sit exactly thus—
alone,
but in the sympathetic company of my
furniture and belongings....
They whisper to me of a time when I was
sinful and wanton and remind me of the
need for redemption....
I remember, and take heed by repenting....
And by doing so, I have narrowly avoided
reaping and gathering the terrible,
karmic consequences
of an unspeakable harvest of sins
for myself!
When I step inside your twisted reality ...
this is what my spiritual eyes see,
your soul revealed in it's totality
A scaly skin of self-serving morality ...
you always ask, what's in it for me,
what can you do for me materially?
Got emotional raging volcanity ...
spewing verbal pyroclastic debris,
you say you only speak Pompeiiese
With your serpentine smug urbanity ...
prefer a gated community,
only mingles with high society
Spread suburban mundanity ...
selling cookie-cutter, debt prison housing to families
with furnishings of faux upholstery
Invest in commercialism inanity ...
everything must be sold is your belief,
even used products with expired warranties
Keep a get-rich-quick mentality ...
you think everybody envies a successful thief,
need only confess to your corporate priest
Suited sharks all have an aggressive vitality ...
eat or be eaten is the mindset to be beastly,
you pick the bones clean with ravenous mendacity
Hiding your lewdness in the cloak of formality ...
giving gluttonous divinations at pagan feasts,
your rented body is the patron jinn of soiled sheets
Cutting all soft hearts with the blade of hard brutality ...
unlock the cages of your rapacious menagerie,
killing souls has been your most primal urgency
Tampered traffic lights creates a mass fatality ...
your hand pushes the button and turn the key,
creating carnage for all to witness your legacy
You pepper life-and-death stakes with vile profanity ...
a seasoned, master provocateur you be,
poisoning the minds with rancid digital obscenity
Rejecting all that is good for humanity ...
cursing the fruit of the life-giving tree,
you rage against the people of the holy
Time to step outside of your straight-jacket insanity ...
the evil that lives within the madness of your psyche
The truth of the cosmos shall consume you utterly
This poem is submitted to:
Contest: Word Challenge
Sponsor: Silent One
Date: 01-30-17
Life is down to no-frills necessities
in a room with the chest of drawers,
double bed and television.
The walker stands in the corner
waiting to be used to get to the dining room,
the social activity three times a day.
The nurse's aide, with her lilting Haitian accent,
comes around to check during the day:
time for meds, channel change? a walk
down the hall? a glass of juice?
You know that you mustn’t drive a car.
The house is gone, and so are its furnishings,
let's face it, life is over.
Grandchildren come to visit,
sighs of relief when it's over.
Dreams of the past when life was real
occupy time until dinner and bed.
This is your day in the sun,
Your day of triumph,
Of commitment,
Of promise and intention,
Of New Beginnings,
The end of loneliness.
This is the new foundation,
The plying together of bricks and mortar
The bricks to give colour and shape,
The mortar to give structure and soundness,
So that together you are an impregnable fortress
With doors of heartfelt love,
Windows of vision,
Rooms of peace and generousity,
Furnishings of service and beauty,
And a garden of sweet memories to grow.
I wish you success at every turn,
Joy on every path,
Delight in all the little things of life,
Deeply rooted and vigorously sprouting shoots of loyalty and love
Nurtured on the fertiliser of experience and wisdom,
And
LONG LIFE TOGETHER!
Just out of sight for all of this time
My reflection convoluted
Because it was effused through the eyes of others
Embarking on strange and harrowing journeys
To find only an empty castle
Countless attempts I have made to fill this space
Cavernous and cold, even adorned with my inadequate furnishings
No more of this
The mirror shall be my own,
Not the sleek dark orbs of strangers with their own intent
Within the comfort of my own reflection
My journey starts anew.
THE BALLAD OF MA POSSUM
Roofing like a penthouse floor,
Tis not a haunt but Ma's snore.
A wombatic possum in appearance,
Being nature's pinup is her arrogance.
Her distintictive, brush, bob tail, loss,
reputedly, respected as the boss poss.
Hearing her grunt and fight,
echoing a freaky still night fright.
Oh!, nightlife beware,
if Ma is anywhere.
trees n eyes in the wood
is part of Ma's family hood.
Scratchings at the door,
signals to eat, until no more,
Possum busters have done their best,
But Ma thinks, tis a game and quest.
With her teeth and claws,
makes furnishings with any trapddors.
Characterise, personalise or humanise,
big booted, smudged lipstick and pearl,
smokin cigars, no sweet little girl,
tough and ready to roll,
she aint no possum doll.
A pet possum sage,
outliving the legends of her long age.
darkness threatens
covers all
darkness threatens,
man's downfall
when comes the darkness
goes the joy
when goes the light
goes happy ploy...
...I dreamt a dream
just last night past
of a happy adventure we took
a subconscious repast
We took a ride, drove far away
we saw places bright, 'pon vistas we fawned
the places we went weren't far astray
from the place of my mind, tween dark and dawn
they weren't so great
we stayed not long
they felt like fate
from care we're gone
a strange old house a dark lone cabin
twas dark, deserted, a haunted place
with furnishings old and dusty, spavined
and in this house were you and me
alone and happy, from constraint free'd
And much else strange there of scenery
much that cannot be described
and much faded from memory
when I returned to the world of life
we stole through dens
and crept down halls
we stood and listened
and heard naught but own footfalls
then we stood in a moonlit room
and in crept the mist
we knew it would be soon,
dreams hold no risk
the light was soft
your eyes were bright
our die was cast
the dream devoured the night
we lay sometimes and spoke aloud
we walked a bit, to pass the time
there was no point yet to be found
yet we held hands, a lover's mime
the words were silent, voices muted
the feelings remained, undisputed
the caresses were warm, tender, knowing
the comfort strange, yet surely footed
when we laughed, with gazes locked
we stood in place, all worries stopped
when eyes met, we knew we'd missed
and gently leaned in, for our kiss
I was no sooner asleep, via another plain I'd arrived
It was not of this world, was my journey contrived
For I awoke in a place that I had never ever seen
Trying to understand where I am, what does it all mean
The surroundings that are before me are of a palatial theme
Furnishings so grand that would be fit for any Queen
Stonework like the Norman's, from many centuries ago
But finished to an out of this world modern, throws me so
An attraction allures my eyes, through long draped curtains
What will my eyes view to confirm my distant certain
The skies are not like ours, they are a cobalt crimson red
Planets dot their ceiling in their silent overhead
I turn as I hear footsteps, like a marching from Earths past
Double doors in gentle open, leaves this Semaj aghast
Before me stands a beauty, with porcelain skin so fair
Whilst a lavender ivy graces, her flowing jet black hair
She leans her head as if pondering, touching lips so pink
Hazel eyes now pierce me, I'm wondering what she thinks
She starts to speak a language that's very new to me
Suddenly it's broken English, what do I hear I see
I am Princess Lorena, and you were always in our dreams
It was just a matter of time when you rode our celestial stream
We know of your Scottish courage, your clannish inner self
And how you saved the Earth, from the Butterfly Winged Elves
You and your droid Etto, whom we've allured to help our cause
On our planet you now stand, like your Earth, has many flaws
We plead you to lead our army, for we believe you to be true
For in this I shall repay, I'll bequeath myself to you
This poem, written by me, James Fraser's is my entry into Constance's contest,
"Tell Her Story"
Within halls that all but speak,
Sit elegant objects, very antique;
Treasured and valued bits of past,
Which care and devotion made last.
A museum crowded with sweet memory,
Like of dead, red robin's late beauty!
The glossy mirror gracing the wall,
At ruddy sunset, reflects them all.
A china doll; a royal wedding gown,
The king's rubied coronation crown.
The past is revived in so many ways,
And lingers through the golden days!
The austere portrait upon the wall,
Is frozen in eternity as time crawls,
As when someone seems lost in a dream,
When the night is awash in moonbeams!
There's Louis XIV and some Chippendale,
Period furnishings of beauteous detail.
The colorful past was created to last-
To make with pop culture, plum contrast!
Hands awaken! Speak out! Answer to sacred shouts,
subterranean whispering, to stars above rooftops—
thread sunlit branches with the chattering of a thousand leaves.
If fluxes and urgencies of confusion or death
should drawn you into your self-box, I say,
remember when one constructed self-prison fell away.
However you helped this forward,
do more of the same.
Be rain-hands, weeping, steeped in earth fragrance.
Be fingers in blossom, faces turning upward,
loves innumerable, rough-cut bedazzled—
unafraid to be splayed open.
Be pocketed hands, released to the welcoming wind—
multiplying there in mid-air,
riding the four directions.
Be hands of smoke and fire, descending and ascending like ragged bird-song—
effulgent, double-charged with surprise
and now even with mock surprises.
Start at the beginning, where you are.
Don’t be satiate with loll-lolling
recede wave’s tide, retreat back and back
into yourselves, until grown utterly intellectual and lumpish!
Now, you Human Being—you come awake also!
Sweep the furnishings from table. Upend the table lawlessly.
Bring the muscular, fleshy, feminine against the masculine and muscular.
Bring the masculine to the feminine. Bring friend to enemy,
estranged neighbor to the confidant. In a dance of pressing hands,
let subtle conversation play.
Ring all the tiny bells.
Stir the King and Queen of Remembrance.
In over-arching restraint, holding back one iota, so pure notes sound—
bring sunburst, sphere and harmony.
Make your entire body a listening board
forming therein—tender shape around which love
seed unfolds infinite spaces and then…
Spring awake! All to better dreaming
where hope and faith are undashed, not this dying.
O, hear me now! Hands, every which one of you,
with every human—never again sleep,
never abandon!