Best Nook And Cranny Poems
Winter is approaching.
I feel it in my floorboards; in my baseboards;
in every nook and cranny.
I wait to be filled again at this time of Thanksgiving, and
As I wait, sounds of the past linger in my consciousness:
The excited moans of the men and of the women (some of whose
first introduction to me came from being carried across my threshold)
as they lay close together in their bed late at night;
The strange incessant wailing of babies that later arrived -
wailing that later changed, more often than not, into squeals of glee.
Some of the families I sheltered engulfed me with heaviness.
In those years, I was assaulted by loud shouting,
much like the barking of dogs from outside.
Those shouts were often met by shrill hysterical screams
or even by the sad sobs of children.
One sound stays with me like a ghost: the quiet weeping
of one lone occupant who held a gun to his head.
In an instant I felt his blood splatter against my walls.
I prefer to remember the touch of the children:
their small smudged fingers exploring my kitchen cupboards;
their tiny warm bodies scooting across my tiles.
On one unusual occasion, a child scribbled happily
on my bathroom walls with bright Crayola colors.
After the explosion of his mother’s angry words,
the bathroom was transformed, and with magic paper
a small part of me was wearing the figures of gold and purple fish.
Forty times or more I’ve been left; then re-inhabited.
Several times I’ve been overhauled: my carpet torn out, a new one laid;
my doors and my fixtures changed for modern ones;
my furnace and my pipes (even once a ceiling) - all replaced.
But lately, I’ve felt so weary, and even renovated, I’m feeling out of place.
Just last month as I was emptied and cleaned for the umpteenth time,
I heard the newest landlord tell his wife:
We won’t have to put up with this crap anymore -
not after we get the offer from those guys who want to build a mall.
I wonder what he meant. My heat and water both have been cut off for so long.
Usually a couple is here by now. But only silence echoes through my halls,
and I’m growing so very cold.
That night, in a strange place
I was like a fly
Circling a street light
Reeling…Reeling!
I felt so alone
Fear wrenched my throat
Couldn’t predict
When I would be charred to death
I had heard,
In the cover of dark
Everyone was a robber
Or a masked assassin!
Without a roof over my head
I was like a mole
Smoked out of its hole
And exposed to blaring light
Had it been my own town
Where I knew
Every nook and cranny
Like the lines of my palm
I wouldn’t have minded
Being so helplessly stranded
Or left in the night
At a distance….
I saw the faint silhouette of hills
Like dreadful dinosaurs crouching
Also the outlines of buildings
Reminding one of the medieval haunted castles
Stray dogs, mangy
Were raiding the trash bins.
I don’t know why then
I enjoyed their company
I could hear the falling hooves
Of cattle, led to the slaughterhouse,
And the lash of whips falling on them,
Echoing the shrieking of a banshee!
Saw an auto lying upside down
Fallen unwary in a pothole
A line of tanker lorries
Seen halted by the roadside,
Like the bogies of a goods train
And their drivers went home,
To sleep with their mates
Behind the cover, I saw
Two figures leaning;
A man and a woman
Night owls at a mating serenade!
I closed my eyes,
Covering them with my palm
In that unearthly hour
An eerie fear gripped me.
Tension was building inside,
Like a balloon being bloated with air
And how my mind longed
To slither out of that hole
To curl up in the warmth of my home
Far… far away!
The rose was fragile in its beauty,
Its hue the colour of romance novels and warm tea,
But these flowers aren’t flickers of flames in winter,
They were cold,
They were your soulless eyes staring up at me from a casket.
You became the still image of everything you should never have been,
Your hair was too neat,
Your honey blond fragments a solid streak,
It was always untidy,
No wonder you were loved so widely.
You were never a rose,
Never dainty nor small,
Pesticides and gloves were never needed,
You always grew tall.
I could touch you without bleeding,
Your thorns never pierced my skin,
You helped me grow,
But now you’re gone,
No sunlight or rainwater tears will ever bring you back.
When I sit in my garden and I watch the sunflowers turn towards that sun,
It hurts a little less to have lost a loved one,
But now I understand.
Not why you had to die but why you lived,
Your life was a garden of memories and breath,
Of the mellow sun striking the petals of yellow sunflowers,
That was you Cath,
You tilted towards everything bright,
Sunflowers litter my garden now,
A sea of sunshine smiling faces,
You are never dead,
For the blazing memory of you keeps every nook and cranny of my garden alive.
Jamaica is our island’s name,
A land blessed with so much fame.
And for the part that our heroes did play,
We pause to reflect and salute them today.
Nanny of the Maroons was a heroine ,true and brave ,
And fought with all her might not to be a slave.
Marcus Mosiah Garvey made us proud of our Black race,
And everywhere he went there was pride on his face.
Paul Bogle of Stony Gut fought for justice for all,
And the powers that be had no choice but to listen to his call.
Norman Washington Manley defended workers’ rights with passion,
And fought with all his might to change every unjust working condition.
Sir Alexander Bustamante was a stalwart for workers everywhere,
And was the voice of the voiceless and spoke without fear.
George William Gordon stood tall to help the poor with their plight,
And he never backed down or turned away until things were made right.
Sam Sharpe listened and he heard what the planters said,
But he stood tall and bravely said, “No more slavery,I’d rather be dead.”
We have been blessed with a great legacy and we are a proud nation,
And our unsung heroes and heroines continue to rise to the occasion.
We must unite against the common foe and guard against complacency,
We must be resilient like our heroes and safeguard our rich legacy.
A legacy of greatness , hard work and resilience in every community,
A legacy of talent, ambition, skills and self-worth in every nook and cranny.
No retreat! no surrender! we will continue to blaze a trail,
And as the blood of our ancestors runs through our veins, we will prevail!
Not by sight but by great might, we will continue the fight,
As we vow to conquer the common foe and make things right.
And just like our heroes did , we will stand tall with pride and decency,
As we salute our heroes and safeguard our rich, bountiful legacy.
YUCK
I know we are supposed to love them
all creatures great and small
I know God had a reason
when he created those that crawl
even those that creep and flit
are part of a master plan
filling every earthly niche
in air, in water, on land
but Lord in your mighty scheme
please tell me in what mood
as you perused your work
and saw that it was good
inspected every nook and cranny
touched every leaf and twig
prompted you without a glance
to invent the pesky earwig.
My mind is a very active place.
Like for all people,
the number of its rooms is limitless,
for the mind travels to many places
as well as traveling via novels and movies,
so those rooms are ever-changing.
They are decorated automatically.
You need not lift a finger to decorate them!
One room different from the ever-changing ones
is my attic. Perhaps for unluckier souls
this room could be a basement or a dungeon!
In my attic are mostly memories which,
for me, are beautifully colored.
Nostalgia floods its very broad expanse
and drips into every nook and cranny.
The main room of my mind
is the living room.
This is like the living room of my friends' minds,
the common room where our thinking dictates
what lies inside it and how those thoughts
are perceived by others.
I like to think my living room is unique,
but also I know it's filled with too much clutter!
The room most interesting of all my rooms
would be the room of my imagination.
In this room are thousands upon thousands
of closets, cabinets, and shelves,
and inside each one are different pieces of
my imagination!
Each cabinet is organized by type.
Some are surreal in color or vivid technicolor!
Those pieces are my dreams.
My fantasies are closeted.
The ones made manifest on paper or computer
are sitting out on shelves!
All the ones which can be seen
are those I call my poems or stories.
Most are not dark in color
but are bright or multi-colored.
I decorate the room of my imagination often.
You may come and see my new shelves
at any time!
Do mind the wet paint.
I'm never finished adding to that room!
Feb. 26, 2018 (my only free verse for this year so far!)
Inspired by another contest but too long for that one.
For John Hamilton's Best Free Verse of 2018 Contest
Hope springs eternal, they say
Robin red-breast seen with the blue jay
Flowers poke their way up through hard ground
Buds on tree open, prisoners unbound
The sky is a pale azure-blue
Her breezes so warm and inviting
Spring's yearly hope's again sprung
The very air whispers promises exciting...
Then what to make of renewed hope in mid-Winter
Rivers and streams no longer flowing
Icicles hang from stark tree limbs midst snowing
Few hints of life outdoors stirring or growing
Yet it's in with the New Year, decked out in gay flirtation
Spirits soaring higher, with each clink of inebriation
Optimism peeking into every nook and cranny of our nation
There's a feeling of can't-miss anticipation --
This year will usher in an era of Lasting Peace and Jubilation!
December 31, 2018
Into my general path with a low voice.
Included are profound love and rejoice.
There will certainly be no lyrical illusion.
Simply a breathtaking, supple inclusion.
In the same vein as a delectable sweet.
She brings joy and a soft, cherished beet.
This involvement encapsulates her well.
In the bliss of my life or in a crystal shell,
The lightness of the wreath is uncanny.
Gently pulling into every nook and cranny
The depth of the loyalty is beyond compare.
An immensely worthless treasure, and rare.
Her compassionate and kindhearted nature
It calms my heart turmoil and mind retainer.
Love that cannot be evaluated or measured.
That filled my soul with all that I treasured.
To have her in my life is a tremendous gift.
Is this love flawless, or is his barb less swift?
Her dulcet apathy, sparkling as stars above,
My lovely addiction, my unconditional love.
Written: June 08, 2023
A crook that liked to search every nook and cranny
In the process he would pinch every women’s fanny
He was shocked one day
And gave it up straight away
When he found his granny was rather manly
The first time I met Madame La Laurie, was in 1832 When she and her third husband (Dr. Louis La Laurie) purchased me. My first impression of Madame La Laurie was that she was soft spoken, of fine breeding, and very beautiful.
Upon her arrival, she wasted no time filling every nook and cranny at 1140 Royal Street with the finest furniture and china that money could buy. No one looking at the plain exterior of this house, would ever expect such opulence within it walls.
She wore the latest fashions from Paris with a flare beyond rival, even by the most inducted social lights of the hour, which did not go unnoticed. Both men and women, would stop in their tracks to gaze upon this regal beauty as she strolled down the main streets of New Orleans.
Soon, with the aide of her husbands connections through his practise, she, gained acceptance into the higher circles of the community and began hosting what would become, the most sought after dinner invitations in all of New Orleans.
This was the one side of Madame La Laurie that the world saw, but it was I, who bore witness to the other side. NEVER could anyone have ever imagined the atrocities this women committed in her chamber of horrors on the 3rd floor as she maimed, tortured and murdered any slave that displeased her.
~~~
I was burned badly, when one slave, wanting to end his misery, set a fire in the kitchen, finally bringing her reign of terror to and end, where upon she fled in her hell driven carriage, into the night, never to be seen again.
Today, I stand here at 1140 Royal street, completely unrecognizable. I have a different face now. The only thing left one would recognize from that day, would be the old path that runs between me and the adjacent house.
Lush green foliage now grows along its edge, in what I like to think, a remembrance to the tortured souls who died here.
Between these brick walls
Bright light filters from above
Old seeds bloom again
BUT...IF YOU DARE to walk between these walls, you...like me, THAT OLD HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS, might see the apparitions of the tortured souls still residing there.
~~~
Poetry form: Haibun
For the contest, A House In New Orleans, sponsor, Lin Lane
PLACED SECOND
Pick & Mix
Oh Frank. W. Woolworths what have you done,
You have taken away all of the fun.
Buying the traditional Pick & Mix,
Was a yearly ritual like the turkey and stuffing mix,
Trying to cram as many as you could
Into the large cardboard tub.
Trying to be canny
and fill every nook and cranny,
Toffees, chocs, jellies, dolly mixtures, shrimps & white mice,
They all tasted really nice.
It only cost £2 99 for the lot
It was up to you how many you got,
Now it is to be no more
Having asked at several of your stores.
Gone now is the tub you could fill with as many as you like.
It’s A bag and weigh & pay, and on your bike.
Oh Frank. W. Woolworths what have you done,
You have taken away all of the fun.
Chase not what was autumn time,
Its vibrant colors that had once adorned.
Now fades away as the winter mourns.
But to savour thoughts like a fine old wine.
Across valley deep over moors and hill,
The Norse wind on his steed doth roar.
Through nook and cranny and frame of door,
With breath of ice like steel.
Ice maid for you enchant us so,
As you lay your cloak of winter down.
Across sleepy hamlets and the bustling towns,
Vestige remnants of the year now go.
© N Windle 2009
Donned my shroud for work that night,
at the amusement park in the haunted house
to thrill some kids; give 'em a fright
just me alone I ran the place.
For safety's sake I kept close check
on who went in and who came out.
Unwise it is, as you can see
to have someone prowling about.
The night was slow which suited me
I liked to stroll the halls inside
When time allowed and I was free,
I walked each hall and chamber.
I closed the door and locked the gate
to check the space for wayward strays.
Each room was clear as I went through
no urn was moved, everything in place
Upon the balcony I paused,
when footsteps came from out the dark.
A shiver down my spine they caused
No soul should be inside with me
I turned to look toward the sound I heard
and out of the dark, what did I see?
All dressed in black of finest lace
a beautiful women stood staring at me
The clock on the wall chimed twelve midnight.
It was always twelve in the haunted house.
I checked my watch; what ironic sight,
for twelve it was, in reality.
In my mind I wanted to flee,
but feeling a gentle touch on my sleeve
her icy yet delicate fingers, nearer, drew me
and my heart would simply not let me leave.
A single tear rolled slow down her cheek
as her cold creamy lips pressed soft against mine.
Then turning away from the kiss she did seek,
as a smile crossed her lips, I saw her tear dry.
Before I could think the shadows concealed her
and left me alone on the dark balcony.
I came to my senses and started to search.
I looked in every nook and cranny.
Not a trace did I find of this beautiful vision,
though I searched through the night with fervent zeal,
I made up my mind and came to a decision
not to share this tale, to avoid the derision.
I have broken that vow for only one reason
to warn you, be careful of places like this.
For sure you'll be left with a fear of the night
and, perhaps, the memory...
... of a dark beautiful kiss.
10/09/15
Headlines of irony in life…
Human satire—cuts like a knife.
The unsinkable ship, that sinks.
Surrounded by peeps, yet alone.
Priests who ‘prey’—yet sins they atone.
Pastor fights alcohol, but drinks.
Tax czar who cheats on his taxes.
Animal fans—hunt to relax.
Abortion kills—with nods and winks.
Lifeguard fearing water—lauds land.
‘Football’—a game played with the hands.
Oedipus—breaks riddle and Sphinx.
Headlines of irony in life...
“Women”—they may now take a wife.
The steakhouse owned by a vegan.
Pedophile daycare directors.
Homeless real estate inspectors.
WAR—‘politics’ by other means.
Fighting drugs, while promoting booze.
Mutual consent—the new ruse.
Prolonged charity squelches teens.
Green tinted speckles on bluefish.
Hitler’s Grandfather was Jewish!
Men—affectionately called ‘queens.’
In life, every nook and cranny,
Holds the next ‘headline irony.’
Good, bad, or sad—it’s Uncanny!
June 2, 2018
Written for Connor Lotts' poetry contest entitled, "Hutinashro - My First Contest Poetry Contest"
Dear friend,
Is it your feeble knock i hear
Waiting to offer a lifetime tale
Wailing in gasps to create
This great affinity we treasure?
I'll be lying if I denied so
Is it real,
That it's you and I who blew that candle
And left luscious tones vibrating behind
That its you and I who made the bond to be in full bloom
And brought to life a sedate surpassing beauty
A beauty of life
A friendship for life?
I'll be honest to claim it so
I've searched every nook and cranny
So as to get a friend like you
I've journeyed with every of my thought
And, all I can say is,
THANK YOU
For a great friend you've been
For a best friend you'll always be
This poem is very special to me. It's one of my two poems that were featured in Young Nation section in kenya Daily Nation Newspaper. That meant a lot to me.
Written between 2000-2003
Just the young thoughts of the young mind