Best Mantelpiece Poems
The only fear of this stubborn lion heart
is to beat - unheard, without the blessings of your sighs.
In the absence of your affection,
severe silence spins cobwebs upon mossy fences,
you have built across your sky full of blackness
and I ponder
when my soul ascends with sunrise,
why do you veil yourself until twilight reflects moonlight?
Am I the personification of a tree,
under which you no longer need shelter.
A message in a bottle,
no longer upon your mantelpiece.
That love sonnet to which you found so much joy,
but now torn from pages of your poetic anthology.
When romance arrived at your doorstep,
blooming like cherry blossoms,
you pressed each petal in a book you called - love,
but now it collects dust - unread,
wilting like an unnourished bouquet,
so here my hopes lay,
like a 'pearls cradle' upon unwanted shores,
preparing to be washed away with the tide.
Footsteps in the sand remain -
although nothing will keep us together.
I know you are the most beautiful thing,
I'll never get to call my own,
so should I still whisper vows into the void,
or allow upcoming waves to wane our bond?
If only you would flow to me
like tropical drops from waterfalls,
eventually kissing frozen estuaries
then I would place you in the cusp of my hands
to refresh my lips, which crave your touch.
It seems this year there was no spring,
no daffodils, no sunshine - only rain,
so downhearted robins did not sing,
but I captured the last feather from your exodus.
I know a premature summer
will only bloom anaemic sunflowers
but, I still sow their seeds -
hoping you will appear.
Simple Sunday Musing
They are poor…they’re removed, they struggle through life,
Every day is a burden on the edge of a knife,
They’re stuck in the circle, that’s all that they know,
And there’s not work around, and nowhere to go.
But a man full of promise says he does understand,
‘My names Uncle Sam, please take hold of my hand,
I’ll break the circle, and then I’ll bring you back,
After a year from somewhere in Iraq.’
She stands at the cemetery gates.
A small bunch of roses and holding back tears.
Just three hundred steps to a name etched in stone
That’s all she has now… for nineteen years.
On the mantelpiece over the burning wood fire,
A son’s photos, citations from her country’s desire
as she sits and she weeps on the madness of war,
And his last words she heard, “What am I fighting for?”
She stands at the cemetery gates.
A small bunch of roses and holding back tears.
Just three hundred steps to a name etched in stone
That’s all she has now… for nineteen years.
2nd January 2010 ©Lindsay Laurie
The hourglass sat on the mantelpiece,
Over a dead fireplace.
Its sand had long settled
In the lower globe of the glass.
The miser and the fire were both dead,
The wake followed suit.
No one was invited, no eatables or drinks.
A dreary affair.
Yet so final,
Like the hourglass.
It's inertia spelled his death.
The unpaid solicitor finished his stock taking
But kept the hourglass for himself.
What’s it about for them, then
Loneliness, poverty, pain
Bang of the bailiff at the door
Death in a ditch in the rain
What is it like for the Joneses
Bigger and better you think
Posh port and pigs in blankets
Sick in the kitchen sink
What’s it about for him, then
A clock, and an empty chair
Picture of her on the mantelpiece
Candle smoke curls in the air
What is it like for her, do you think
Hairdo and heels and hurrah
Hampers and champers from Harrods
Packed in to Daddy’s car
What’s it about for the Christians
The return of the sacred child
Under a star in a stable bare
Jesus, meek and mild
What is it like for the Druids, then
Stood in the circle at dawn
Frost on the moss on frozen stone
Lit by the sun reborn
What’s it about for the children
Mysterious, glittery, bright
Hope of a mythic benevolence
Come as a thief in the night
What is it like for us, then
Rushing and spending and stressing
Cursing the souls in the queue at the till
Or kissing a friend with a blessing
What will it be like for you, then
Whatever you will it to be
Riotous ostentation, or
Peace and sweet charity
What it’s about for me is this
One white and holy dove
The silence after the shops have shut
And love
© Gail Foster 3rd December 2016
It was an ordinary kind of day,
You had left me to go to work
And drop off Denny at school
A factory klaxon was sounding
In the distance; and I pictured the
Morning shift dragging the night's
Dreams inside
Outside, the peach trees we had
Just planted, bowed to each other,
As though acknowledging their taste
And then that picture on the mantelpiece
Brought night in to the breezy light room,
Tugging at my shirt collar like a debt
But I turned away to the blue sky; and
The bowing peach trees asked why?
Between the pulse of our heartbeat simply present
head- heart linking
dwelling in time with stretched blissful peace
awareness became unblinking.
Between heaven and earth the ethereal pulse of God's creation
sifting through the soul like a fluttering kite in motion
Here we are in a dwelling place of quarrel and demolition
only peace can assuage the heart and give it, its contrition
In the middle of war stretched across landscape of your heart
"The Lord's prayer," in a lilting whisper, you got this to an art
Give us today our daily bread and help us to do our part,
it is only love agape that gives our soul a fresh new start
Connecting spaces of our head-heart connection a mantelpiece
decorated with meditative awareness and unblinking utter peace
"Lead Us Not Into Temptation" let me decrease as you increase
seed and bloom inside my heart and help me fold this crease
Side by side two strong bookends holding together what rends
with a soulful melodic vibration I arrive at every bend
"May Thy Kingdom Come" and live within me til the very end
side by side, ... like two old reliable and sturdy bookends.
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
Baby Jesus wrapped
in soft tissue paper
Mary and Joseph
in a bubble plastic bag
The three wise men
wrapped in a
Christmas napkin
The cow is missing an ear
and the sheep have become
slightly yellow -
a donkey and an ox
are also included
No angels sing,
the star is extinguished
History and symbols
placed in a dark cabinet
Same procedure as every year
The mantelpiece
is empty
Wait and expect
all-consuming
hope is sucked out
empty mind
Believe when
all doubt is against you
Enjoy the beautiful dim twilight
Written: September 24, 2026
**********
The house grows quiet, voices fade away,
Empty chairs wait guests who won't arrive.
The telephone robotic rings betray,
Silence that surrounds me, makes me strive.
My knuckles built up their own syntax,
Every joint and bone is mapped by ache.
A display of pills on the top of the tacks,
A week of tunnels and no house break.
Friends as stones I've gathered over the years,
Some polished smooth, others jagged, worn.
Doctor's waiting room now calms my fears,
No mantelpiece gatherings, no morn.
Feelings of loneliness are as thick as rain,
Its monotonous, never-ending of night.
I speak to screens, endure the loop again,
For comfort in the artificial light.
Yet dawn comes, the kitchen window stays,
Coffee still holds a flavor, rich and deep.
I'm still here counting on my numbered days,
Still someone's father, still the love to keep.
For children's names I'd memorize, their needs,
Through every darkness, through hardest falls.
The body is tired, but love still intercedes,
And life, though shaking, still recalls.
In my youth, I am sure I was slim,
a figure both modest and trim;
but now I am old, I'm frequently told
my features are wrinkled and grim.
As a girl, I was agile and quick,
my dancing was stylish and slick;
but sadly it’s gone, I just hobble on
now helped with the aid of a stick.
I attracted young boys by the score,
un-limited lovers, galore.
No more sex appeal, instead they all reel
and claim I'm a dowdy old bore.
In my prime, I would argue, roughshod,
Demosthenes then was my god.
But now I just drone, I mumble and groan
and gripe like a grumpy old sod.
All day I just look at the walls;
the clock on the mantelpiece crawls.
But is that a knock, a turn of the lock?
I do hope that somebody calls.
~
For Black Eyed Susan's 'Aging' Competition.
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.
There’s a billy on the open fire
Piles of beech wood by the door
Smokey stains adorn the iron roof
Wax drips on bench and floor.
Old cobwebs drape the windows
Dog-eared cards upon a shelf
The half a dozen Readers Digests
Will fill the evening by yourself.
Outside the rain is pouring down
As you brew your cup of tea
A candle betrays a subtle draft
But you're warm and quite comfy.
Bunks line against a single wall
You see where mice have chewed
Checking socks upon the mantelpiece
Again enjoying the pleasing mood.
As you sign within the guestbook
A chance to read the travellers tales
Of epic journeys, in stunning land
Huge success and classic fails.
Lives saved by simple shelter
To casual stops along the track
Unplanned stays for many a day
Seen as palace, a villa, and shack.
And to you this place is special
It’s a place you just adore.
And though you’ve never visited,
You know you've been in here before.
*The NZ Department of Conservation manages a network of over 950 huts of all shapes and sizes. They provide unique places to stay, refuge from bad weather, or rest and recover while experiencing the great outdoors.
The embedded curse
of a roving planet, brings
out a story of otherness
versus loneliness.
Adultery was on cards.
An issue was rising
between the string
and the bullet.
Let us pretend. There was
a serial killer in every-
home, who will come out
at night to send the message.
The curved dots will join
to give an explicit image.
Do you like it ? Can
you put it on mantelpiece ?
Satish Verma
The celebrations soon will all be done,
Christmas and New year's eve are put to bed,
trees down, cards on the mantelpiece are gone,
replaced by January blues instead.
As the year's dying seconds slowly tick
and promises are made, old habits die,
our Teflon resolutions, all non-stick
fall by the wayside as the days go by.
Why hold such stock in one day of the year?
Each day's a gift, be thankful at its end,
Rise full of hope as the new dawn appears,
embrace the challenges that it may send.
Man numbered them, and gave each one a name,
but live each day as if they were the same.
Trains run alight terminate on time like clockwork
never ending endless procession of precision conductors
the conducted walk down the line warped tracks of
cynically divided isles dead ends of ‘labour making free’
Evil strips uniformed confluence stripes and leather
Coated terrified collection production of space soap
horror lampshades shearing shorn haired tattoos the
undivided divide of power abomination horrid abnormal
‘normality’ represses guilt projected trans-re-and aggression
Evil does other in the guise of completed concentration
Concerted action blisters scorches screams cacophonies
children on father’s lap blue eyed dancing and laughing
kisses of love adoration cuddly dolls miniature life’s train
sets model schema roles toys games memories distraction
Evil giggles corporates shapes what past and future holds
Mothers craft homes happy families embrace posterity apple
pies devotion roast cinnamon cranberry turkeys tarts in ovens
pious allegiance compassion progress contrast splitting off piano
forte harmonious singing rejoicing at mantelpiece and altar
Evil mocks smouldering torches paradise’s apple deprivation
Juvenile followers of fashion compose indoctrinate compost
hail philosophy’s trampled ideology void of virtue meaning
distorted communion bread wine blind vision blind-sight vortex
trailing inscribing engraving present history timeless repetition
Evil tracks moribund humanity dignity degeneration and disgust
Unless we reflect examine investigate inside and around
us the smokescreens stacked ember ashes individual ‘Self’
universal pursuit of righteousness flames of denial denigrating
potential illuminate conscience honesty fallibilities blue prints
for darkness and unless we act and fight stand up and even then
Ubiquitous evil at this very moment will cast its seeds and shadows
will unbalanced fires raise their ugly head and minds and shoulders gas
and bullets terror grenades rockets mines warfare starving emaciation
lest we forget the prototypes the moulds automated conveyor belts evil
we can not abdicate responsibility for blatant murder of the human race
Auschwitz is everywhere and there is no hierarchy of evil
July 1st Independence Day (Canada)