Best Mantlepiece Poems
I was born to sail.
I can hear whispers of the ocean calling me,
but there are no tides upon this mantlepiece.
I cannot set sail, trapped in this glass cocoon,
collecting dust.. I am no resting place for flies.
Eyes gaze at me in wonderment,
at the patience and precision of my imprisonment,
unaware my masts are raised.... Waiting,
for the seal to break and set me free upon open waters.
In the confinement of my stillness,
I remain poised for this fortress to shatter.
This shield may preserve my charm,
but its glass walls prevent a voyage of purpose,
where I can feel the breeze and
admire my reflection on waves.
Forty days and forty nights in lock down
Breathless for inhaling my own air ad infinitum
Could be worse if I was left out to dry in the desert
Isolation in my own four walls in solitude
Puffing and panting from the magic scented flacon
Fragrant innocence of lost childhood in terminal decline
Slimming down expectations for a slice on the road to Nirvana
I light sandalwood from a candle of flickering dreams
Perfumed ideation adamantly adheres to waxen resolve
It's only over when the slim lady sung a tune of lifting reprieve
I hope that she has been told when to bow for applause
And that the virus chokes on the curtain of epical demands
Like a bat out of hell I run round in circles along my four walls
Loose count of repetitions as I pace an eclipse of boredom
Enact biblical scenes with a teddy bear and ragged dolls
Lego figures dance a concert of doom with swift ballerinas
Trinkets on the mantlepiece rejoice in prominent position
Count their blessings and have their day in the lime light
Super powers of alien invasion penetrate my face mask
Order my persona to reveal resilience and count down
The apocalypse for when the gloves are off and insanity ends
03rd April 2020
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
My vacuum cleaner’s broken,
sits in the garage gathering dust
Beside dad’s old green car,
oxidising an orangey rust
I tried washing it last week,
and the water turned to wine
Well the colour miraculously looks,
venetian turpentine
World weary in a dusty brain,
contemplating null dividends
Doubtful the universe grew from zero,
to mere accidental existence
I’m never sure of anything,
other than opening up my eyes
When intelligence outsmarts evolution,
worlds of meaninglessness arrives
Nothing ventured everything gained,
the cosmos just gave and came
Dust clumped together,
galaxies burst forth into flame
No blueprint just chaos,
serendipity’s our only friend
Instructions out the window,
laws of physics can’t comprehend
Anyway God created us,
a few millennia after we made him
Mankind needed order,
to rid an infernal world of sin
I mean who’d hold faith in dust,
when all is said and done
Well some of us actually do,
on the mantlepiece in an urn
Yeah I’m full of bull, this
agnostic needs little imagination
I’m wasting space on the fence,
making these observations
I watch dust versus crosses,
and a universe going bust
Neurons keep me company,
as my brain churns out mush
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
King-Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
01/12/22 rhyme form
The Ship In The Bottle
Who can't admire the ship in the bottle
that sits on the mantlepiece of a stately home
with it's windblown sails, its row of cannons
and it's loyal crew.
A ship that will never encounter storms
or risk danger of running aground on jagged reefs
never seeing action or battling the high seas
and never discover new lands.
A ship of dignity, imprisoned in a glass dome
it will always remain the ship in the bottle.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame,
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
For Eve Senn
You may have never believed in ghosts
Smart people never do,
Or certainly they never admit
To others that it is true.
But I can tell you of a ghost
That's known where ever you roam,
And that is the spirit that remains
When at last you leave your old home.
You'll think that when the door's been locked
And you've said your last farewell,
That the book is closed, the story done
There remains nothing else to tell.
But in the stillness of the night
You'll awake in your home that's new
And catch yourself turning, or walking or thinking
The way you used to do.
Then you'll remember the mantlepiece
Where the old clock used to fit,
And the sunny patch in the garden
Where the cat would always sit:
Or the sheltered spot where the bench was set
So you could take in the view,
And you will remember how things are not,
Today in your home that's new.
And should you ever return again
In spirit, or one day visit,
You won't find a nook that does not have
Some little memory in it.
The answer you see is in your mind,
The phantoms are lingering there,
Waiting for something to let them loose
And catch you unaware.
When you think there's nothing there!
Now that you have got this far, leave a message and be a star!
Thank you
Old country house rich colored rugs hot wind
Gallopping hair whipped wildly at his cheeks
Solid double doors top of stairway top coat
Mantlepiece photographs in ornate frames
Small white dog head between its paws
China tea perfect lawn afternoon ceremony
Bowler hat spirited distinguished manner
Smile of welcome, something in his eyes
She trusted his good manners + hospitality
Embraced the shadowy play of candlelight
Scent of peppermint musk vanilla surprise!
i'm talking world war three blues
and how the baubles resemble the planet neptune
one kid has trashed the grotto
flameless LED tea light candles on the mantlepiece
another exclaims, 'can we stop talking and just take
the photo?'
a girl says she wants a telescope
a boy says he wants a crane
another says a fraggle stick car
helicopter parent and coo coo bonko
my daughter doesn't recognise me
tears of a clown stuff
a kid claims the beard is fake and i say, 'look...',
i tell a family from germany
we can take a hundred photos, i don't mind,
i will get the son that red double-decker bus
you're wonderful people
they leave
the boss pokes his head round the door and says,
'brilliant, boy.'
Matchstick Girl.
Matchstick Girl in ragged clothes,
lace up shoes and purple toes.
'Come buy your matchsticks from me sir,
your wife all fancy in her fur'.
Every night on London's streets
there were matchstick girls
with clip clop feet.
Men with sticks and big top hats,
cobbled streets with hungry cats.
Gaslights dimming out the night,
pavement shadows causing fright.
The matchstick girl to a window ledge,
strikes a match from behind a hedge.
Yuletide greetings she does see,
candles lit on a Christmas tree.
Girls with velvet ribbons and bows,
fancy frocks and socks on toes.
A mantlepiece with stockings hung,
gathered folk and a carol sung.
Satsumas, figs and dry cured ham,
chestnuts roast in a metal pan.
Then the matchstick girl with her stick of light
returns again to the dark cold night.
'Come buy your matchsticks from me please'
as she starts to shake and she starts to freeze.
That night her matchsticks all ran out,
she could not light a match to shout.
Snow had poured down snow on snow,
little matchstick girl nowhere to go,
she lay down on the snow instead,
with angel wings to rest her head.
The snowflakes carried her soul away
to a place called Heaven far away..
Pictures on the mantlepiece
Of those in your heart,
Black and white or with a crease
Where they have come so far;
Taken only yesterday,
Yet forty years ago;
Remember when you used to play
Out in the sun, the snow?
But the faces slowly fade,
Growing weaker in the light;
You feel you have outstayed
Your time here ends tonight.
Now a beautiful tear
Catches in your ruffled skin;
You will leave it here,
And wait for it to begin.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
When I was young and in my prime,
I knew I’d be famous one day.
Although I hadn’t worked out how,
I was quite sure I’d find a way.
I’d play cricket or football for England
And win the World Cup again.
Then win an Olympic gold medal
And become a household name
Or maybe I’d be an actor,
A star of stage and screen,
With a mantlepiece full of Oscars
And be knighted by the Queen.
But now I’m old and past my prime
And none of those things have occurred.
Outside of my own little circle,
My name has never been heard.
But, when the final curtain falls
And the mourners have drifted away,
I’ll leave the stage with no regrets
At the end of my own little play.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia-toned photographs lined the mantlepiece
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst from a bookshelf,
while origami figures lined another.
A coffee mug bore stains of sherry aperitifs
and port to accompany his after dinner cigar.
Crosswords and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers,
evidence of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook like wraiths,
belying his portly and prodigious frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
scant measure of the man that he once was.