Best Living Room Poems
My living room would be an ordinary place
if not for angel figures by the door
that grace the top two shelves of my ornate bookcase.
The room is more appealing than before
I placed them there, where I'll make room for more.
My living room would have no personal, sweet touch
if not for loved one's photos all around,
arranged to show how time is marching on. They're such
a blessed inspiration. I have found
when I'm alone, sight serves as well as sound.
My living room exudes the personality
that pleases me. I love those smooth earth tones
(to some, these hues are dull and drab, but not to me).
My tv tray and rocking chair have grown
to be my special writing desk and throne.
June 17, 2016 (posted)
May 5, 2018, entered in Brian Strand's Early May Premiere Contest
In my living room,
i am curled into a cedar rocker
listening to the spring rain
on my roof.
sipping on spidersilk chai,
webbing grasping onto
the ceramic rim
and the milk and honey
enveloping my lips.
i feel like my tongue is satin
and can speak no frail language
when i tell you love
is pain
and therefore is real.
There is a sudden crowd inside the ribs,
a heavy shifting of weight,
like old furniture dragging across a hardwood floor.
It is the nervous, rhythmic friction
of a thumb tracing the rough seam of your jeans,
over and over,
trying to anchor a body that feels too light.
You stand bare under a noon sun
with nowhere to tuck your hands,
the throat closing up like a dry pipe
around words that refuse to be smooth.
It tastes like the bitter, metallic burn of morning coffee
scalded against the top of your tongue,
the physical evidence of rushing into the day.
Then the floor drops away,
that sudden, terrifying lurch in the gut
when your foot encounters only empty air
on a dark staircase you thought you knew by heart.
The silence follows, heavy as a wet wool coat,
settling into the quiet hallway upstairs
where the floorboards stop creaking,
and you realize the house has gone entirely still.
But the lungs remember how to expand.
A laugh breaks out, unrehearsed, ugly, and loud,
the kind that jolts the shoulders
and leaves you blinking at the sudden light.
It is the cold, sharp shock of air
filling the chest right after the crying stops,
tasting faintly of ozone and salt.
We are of a fragile, clumsy construction.
We bruise against the corners of tables;
we stitch ourselves back up with mismatched thread.
To be alive is just to leave the front door unlatched,
inviting the weather to wreck the kitchen,
and standing there in the debris—
bruised, exposed,
and entirely glad to have felt the storm.
Looking out, everything but the mountains
seems affected by wind today
It drives the sea green water that divides
our little island from the other bay
Coconut palm leaves, wildly sway
color and movement, vibrant, alive
Hedges shimmer, verdant with flowers
Tropical warmth between blowing showers
And, under cloud shadows, at the foot
of the Koolaus-
one sunlit meadow
Suzanne Delaney
when reading Koolous [ it is 3 syllables ko- o- laus ]
11/20/2015
For the contest, Any Poem, sponsor, Broken Wings
I lost the remote in the living room.
On Saturday.
My husband and I ran around looking and looking.
At first it was just the couch pillows, we were looking through.
An hour into it we had made what looks like a bon fire,
Tipping over couches, recliners, and such.
We broke a couple of tables.
Hey, wait, my husband reminded me.
Merlin was here today.
I called Merlin’s mommy, our daughter.
She said, "Oh, darn. We just found it. We thought it
was the one we lost a couple of weeks ago."
Merlin is our two year old grandson
Whom we apparently did not watch
As well as we should have the
5 hours he was here.
He is going to have to
Leave his hoodie and
His diapers at home.
There, There! Good Children!
I say to the furniture gracing my space,
semi-circling the weary gray eye
of the television, as if it were the center
of the world. It's tired, but YOU are
to rest upon. Support for the watchers
in my diminishing world: a Bentwood rocker,
(made of bent wood?) Circle upon
concentric circle positioned for prettiness
and posture. Each piece, here, are
rescues: "New to You, Purple Dove, Paws-
ability." Found treasure, saved from
destruction like the sad-eyed pups behind
cages in the animal shelter. Desperate
for someone's arms. Cushy couch,
you are the arms around us, your five
fat pillows, each one retrieved from the un-
wanted shelf to form and reform a family,
reclaiming their purpose to make a
connection. Reveling in the compassionate
company of an old piano bench, its lid
upholstered in black velvet, beneath which
sheets of music were stored, and beside
a scalloped-edge table shaped like a fragile
shell one might find on a beach. Saved
from a languish in a Paris flea market, it
lifts a lamp, its base a life-sized rabbit
like he who dined on flowers in my front-
porch garden when love was alive,
his shade a black-death mushroom, lined
inside in gold, showering sheltering light
just enough and not to much to make us
edgy, unlike the nightly less-than benign
news from the black, black box.
I live atop a foothill to mountains of the Cascade Range
and people here keep to themselves whether on busses or on trains;
from my back porch are lights a big city can be seen;
and the blissful aroma of Tacoma remains endlessly lingering.
Strange men and women drive so many different cars, backed up on I-5;
quiet shameful waste of natural resources and an utter waste of lost time—
Displaced in such crowded chaotic madness;
eyes reveal a hopeful truth behind bloodshot sadness.
I can also see such a sight from my front yard,
where tens' of thousands' drive to work very, very hard;
a not so big surprise when homeless men floating that-their sign,
witness cars turn away cheeks denying wrongs with you and too I.
And hope remains prevalent above all other fear; all alone—
So long as we give all our love every day; too each, we call home...
1-05-17
Milton, Washington (United States of America)
A Sonnet contest about where I live, by Silent One...
Lorne Park Christmas at our parents and grandparents beautiful house,
The beautiful floor to ceiling Christmas Tree.
Decorated with our favorite decorations and Christmas lights.
The tree stood on grandma's beautiful carved linen chest in front of the lving-room window.
Father would decorate the large windows with Christmas lights,
At Christmas time we would drive through the exclusive neighborhood and view the Christmas lights.
Santa would wrap the presents and put them under the Christmas tree,
We celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. and Christmas Day.
We would have the beautiful wooden figures, the angels choir and the beautiful advent's wreath.
An exquisite Christmas table cloth would cover the living-room table.
Christmas Eve. we would light the candles,
Father would narrate the Christmas Story.
We would sing Christmas carols,
Our parents taught us a love for music
Santa would come and we would exchange presents,
We always received presents we liked.
A beautiful fashion or a game,
We celebrated many exquisite Christmases together.
I will always remember these days,
Thankful to God for the many blessings.
Author : Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Call me and kiss my smile
Isn't that.....your style?
I'm licking my lips.
Aah! The taste of you.
I'm on my way home.
Savage affection you fed me.
I have never known.
A satisfying COOL autumn wind
I breathe in.
My key is in the door
I imagine myself laying on
The thirsty desert sands
I am splayed across my
Living room floor
Ask of me what ever you wish.
I will fill the desert with ocean
If you care where, there, there
My love, my dear fair, flare
What heart stopping joy you are
A million miles away
You have given me reservoirs of
Sweet agony such that I can not ignore
You are my core
My core my core
Encore! ENCORE! ENCORE!
MY BELOVE
MY BELOVE
MY BELOVE
Wallpapering the living room is a job for many
So, we invited our relatives over, in all there were twenty
They got glue all over the carpet, it was an enormous mess
We got six or seven wallpaper strips up, more or less.
The next time we do this, we have to limit the brothers
Said the wives, mothers, and unhappy grandmothers.
They are running around, doing crazy things goofy and silly.
And we will never again invite your Great Uncle Billy.
Great Uncle Billy was having a blast telling stories to the boys.
He was adding lots of details, and they were making loud noise.
Settle down! Yelled the mothers who were doing the work.
The kids were laughing their guts out, at stories of Uncle McGurk.
Ghost in the living Room
This night, my abode is filled with absolute silence
And from the living room, the sound of loud banging on the floor
I am living in a neighborhood of crime and violence
So at about two am, I get out of bed; the robber and the poor
Transported, I stand in the doorway, astonishment on my face
Entire room, there is brilliant light as bright as day
In this vision, everything seem out of place
This paranormal event, leaves me astounded, nothing to say
Standing sideways in front of the fish tank, is a young man
And I wonder what brings him here
With outstretched hand and a bronze sun tan
Maybe he is from a far distance to bring me fear or cheer
About twenty-two years old; I stare at him intently still
Thin, light sideburns, mustache and curly black hair
Is this spirit trying to break my will?
He is dressed ; he is about to go to work somewhere
I look at him; he never turns to look at me
He is full of confidence and so secure
Is he an angel from a star? I never once think to set him free
Am I the one who has caused him to make this tour?
Without any fear or trembling in my soul
I just look at him and turn away
This apparition does not terrify nor make me cold
Being not afraid, I slowly move back to sleep where I stay
William Morrissey 3/04/07
A Living Room; Incomplete
Like a dark brown leather couch
Always there
at the end of a very long day
So comforting, just to see you
So welcoming, I despair
As I finally cross the threshold
to a face, I wish were home
My focus, drawn to brown eyes
In essence, we’re alone
Such depth, within your iris
That the world just disappears
Such strength, you give in kindness
I’m at peace
As you’re holding me in comfort
and I’m drifting off to sleep
I imagine that your fingers
brush softly on my cheek
So gentile are your lips
as you whisper me; goodnight
I long to hear 'I love you'
But, I’m not the one you feel, is right (for you)
Like a dark brown leather couch
Always there
at the beginning of another day
So comforting, are your brown eyes
But sadly, I despair
© 2017 Jeffrey Spencer
Our evenings have withdrawn
into a closed living room,
where we don’t chat
but let a large TV cheat us.
We watch life on a screen
with a vicarious thrill.
There were children everywhere
in our ancestral home –
you could see one
even within a bamboo basket
lying upside down.
‘One’ is the ideal number now.
No one likes
noises annoying the living room.
We’ve banished our only daughter
into an adjacent study –
where she’s seen
as a broiler chicken.
A savory smell,
wafting up from the kitchen,
used to tickle my nostrils,
while sitting on the veranda.
Now our cooker rarely whistles –
fast-food parcels really silence our kitchen.
Our pa and ma had defeated the hard soil –
it was their sweat drops
that soothed our stomachs.
We’ve discarded the defunct parents
in a dark stinking room,
even where they pray for us.
We peep into others’ life
with a voyeur’s eyes.
Love and fun hatch not
out of our muted words.
We aren’t living here,
only imagining of living.
After grueling sessions of
Guitar Hero 3,
I would often look to the mirror
to my right
and marvel at how
my vision was affected by the game,
with the mirror becoming twisted
and augmented,
slithering across the wall in my living room.