Best Paneling Poems
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
after the dance we opened the doors
dampness surrounded this place maroon drapes
paisley patterns blinded my emotions license plates
of james dean covered the pine paneling only in the back
funny how a pair of levi's could bring about
such lonliness but there was james standing there
leaning up against his motorcycle flickering that cigarette
i had dreamed of life away from a smoked filled room
however i was being forced fed macho manner
by mere bruts tyrants wearing tightly fitted pinky rings
shuffling their feet quickly my only thought was that of
the stingrays sharp shooters how their eyes are morbidly
unseen right before they strike their prey i wouldn't even
speak of away from tropical shirts and the pelicans beak
an yet after the dance we had entered this think tank
of sea urchants mere leaches all reaching for small time
scores the same old crabs in the same old bucket
one by one pulling the one closet to the top back down
to scurry sideways with the bottom feeders night crawlers
here i am again your place their place our place i wondered
if they noticed me at all or was i just a cold curvy bottle
of coke a cola to be placed on a red and white canvas
in front of knitted covered candles or was i just a manikin
leaning against that timeless old seeburg continuing to drag
the needle slowly across the nylon fibers of my favorite record
over and over again like filing my broken nail or fussing over
another run in my stocking who needs stocking why i was simply
this forgotten mermaid among a school of green eyed hungry sharks
but then there was james a mere mirage gazing down route 66 in land
catering to the backside of those levi's oh wait here he comes again
he's going to ask me to dance what will i say oh my feet hurt or just
say no shoes tonight shall we swim out of here my mind tossed to and froe
i just couldn't bare to waste a perfectly good pair of fins don't you know
Picture this… Her 1st memory
Backward Garfield underwear and a t-shirt
A body beneath her completely bare
Jerry curls in his hair
Into his eyes she stared…
Picture this…
She jumps up as the front door opens
Scurries into the bathroom
Dark wood paneling all around her
No light; everything is a blur
A light fixture with a long string dangling
Metal tip on the end hanging…
Picture this…
A hook latch on the door
Clothes on the floor
She can’t reach… stands on the bleach
On her tippy toes
Frightened as the wind blows
She has to lock it; she must; but she froze…
Picture this…
She hears the voices
The tap on the bathroom door
She’s still trying… her body’s sore
The door opens and she asks
“Panties on backward?”
“Why aren’t you dressed; this place is a mess?”
She looks up; fear on her face
Her heart continues to race...
Picture this…
In he walks in only boxer shorts
"I told her she could get undressed.”
“Hurry up and go clean up your mess.”
She just stood there and didn’t say a word
Her voice was never ever heard
She was just 5 years old
Her secret she never told...
Lay
Emotions are like a storm rolling in, I prefer my mood to be like happy weather
When I say happy weather I mean a beautiful sunny day
I look outside the glass window paneling and I see the birds chirping
And the trees lively and green
Not a cloud in sight but a lovely beam of sunlight piercing through the living room of glorious light
I noticed one of my dogs as he lay, while the others frolic and play
And I enjoy the peace and quiet alone
I might want to enjoy this happy weather without a care
My heart is filled with this happy weather mood
I awake in the morning, somewhere round four
Drink some coffee, shower, brush my teeth.
Dress for work and head for the door,
I kiss my sons forehead, turn to leave, kiss it again.
Just in Case!
I work hard during the day, Building houseboats,
Framing, nailing, paneling, roofs and floors,
Near completion, time to paint, I think two coats.
I call my son at lunch; tell him I love him, not once, but twice
Just in Case!
Get home in the afternoon, somewhere round three,
Have a cold drink, start dinner, relax a bit,
Talk with my son, ask what he did today, " Let me see"
I hug him once, then hug him twice more,
Just in Case!
When dinners done, and evening fades to night,
Dessert is gone, teeth are brushed and I tuck him in.
He asks me " Dad, will everything be alright?"
I kiss his forehead, hug him once, then twice, I tell him I love him
Tell him again and turn the night light on!
Just in Case!
What do you do? Just in Case!....................
In the regal modesty
of a Nubian queen,
there she sat
at the edge of the water;
her legs hanging over.
In the wet softness thereof,
her feet rested. Yet her stare over the pool
was as if staring over the ocean—
A centuries old innate yearning—to a distant
motherland; a stoic pose of freedom…
But not at last.
Life and living still had its hidden shackles.
Muffled hidden shackles…jingling
in the ‘land of the free and the home of the brave’.
Despite the ‘white washing’,
the cleansing of the ‘shocking
bottoms’ and the paneling
of the old quarters,
the land of ‘first sails’ and cardinals,
remained a mess.
What a strange equality?
Though the past had gone—as had time—
it remains. And the future waits
a distant reality—lingering. Lingering in the land
‘…for lovers’—where true justice remained jilted.
i hit my brother’s dab pen and got high so i could play guitar better
instead i saw jesus’s face in wood paneling
like what a god might see before he dies, immortally of course
if i didn’t have ADD i’d probably do outrageous like my homework or keeping a
conversation or something and maybe i’d actually finally breathe so i could do
stuff like everyone (else) just to lose my breath again
but for now i’ll continue bowing down to worship my own personal god
then turn around to pop more pills hoping he’ll go away
i wake up every morning, quickly kill myself, brush my teeth, then go off to work and get in a car accident and lose my car and laugh
rusty blood, the color of the dream i had
maybe i’ll meet jimi hendrix in heaven and i could wear his headband
maybe i’ll look down and notice myself waving in the mirror this time
make sure there’s one in my coffin, thanks
i forgot my pizza rolls in the microwave
Form:
Sin
What is sin?
Is it when you raped me over and over again
as I would scream and cry begging you to stop.
Is it when you tied me to the basement floor
asking me if I wanted more.
Is it when you burned my flesh with red hot spoons,
or is it when you smashed my head with the broom.
Is it when you took fish hooks every time you were mad
Stuck them in so very bad.
Is it when you took the paneling boards across my back
which turned ever so black.
Is it the bruise's you leave, the scars you make
This is only my fate.
Is it the lies you tell, my body has become so frail.
Sin is all around, I wont make a sound.
I promise I'll die and never be found.
And there are not enough cubicles and grey paneling that
sugar rock candy lights won’t cut
the sapling eye from its still decline into Abyss.
And there are not enough sad thoughts wars rapes to gratify inward hatreds which never walk the feather but mobilize the thousand marching whales across an entire worlds sandy interior.
across every turtle egg.
If there are secrets below us we are too many
too numerously traveling
a cacophonous tandem that secrets could survive our drumming lull.
Surely we have broken all our secrets with our song.
I hear only ever what anyone always forever has known.
I have no doubt anymore.
There is only sand below.
No. The saddest days are behind in mouths of our trekking bedded with pruned flowers who wilted passing along the snaking vine of history which coils and dies as mast and pointed finger at every moment we recall our saddest days.
But these days are not polished aged silvers of goals and just conquering, but like a sword waved through crowds at night where the tallest fell in heads and became mountainous cultures of sporadic hands where finally at this moment cresting backwards
we see our ladder in dawn
and it is blood.
Every possible minute from every now onwards.
Each point along stretches back marking the infinite fence of beginnings lamely ticked from the chain which links them. Such that as time leans in the depth of reflection, in the understanding of casual existence, of tragedy, everyday comedy — the noon will bite its appearance, and we will miss our lunch.
Dry and sour throats work along this real thing.
Where there was once water and loss
Is the leftward image of death in decline.
We are not so caring as to want for our lives.
For as long as we want others, and acquire others, and drift from others — who were once familiars — only to drift back and want again, and not be in haste of charging this social pattern with contempt of experience;
Of laughing at us,
Doubting our depths,
Then there is hope.
If not, then we shall continue.
But we will not have our sadness.
We will dry our tears from each other
And mask the body to wed from time.
This tomb is a forever we would not escape.
It is a death amidst the sand.
The river awaits.
Your Sanctuary Ruins
O, these everlasting ruins,
In the place where you did meet.
The enemy set up their standards;
Smashed the carved paneling, so sweet.
They defiled Your dwelling place—
Burnt it to the ground;
Said in their hearts, “We’ll destroy them.”
Planned no more Jews be found.
How long will the enemy mock You?
Will your name be reviled forever?
Why do You hold back Your hand—
You, Lord, possess all power?
Remember the people You purchased—
The sheep of Your pasture land.
It was You who split open the sea;
Broke the heads of the monster by hand.
We know you judge uprightly
And at the appointed time,
But how long will the horns against heaven,
Be allowed to continue in crime?
Your four kingdoms are at an end;
The last kingdom reigns again;
raises its standards toward heaven;
determines to control the hearts of men.
As we look upon the ruins,
We think of Your sanctuary above;
Dream of the heavenly Zion,
Where all is bound by Your love.
Where the enemy is silent;
Laid finally to rest;
Peace reigns for the righteous,
Who’ve passed the earthly test.
Copyright © 2009-2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
vi. etching, detailing (ala fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.
xvi. Helping, née completing
homework/school assignments.
Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one sixth of mein kampf livingsocial.
A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).
Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.
Ancient forests
Old before man walked the Earth
Trees that watched wars and peace
Men died in their roots
Looking up at the sky through empty branches
Lovers kissed
Fell in love beneath their budding leafs
New lives formed in the cradle of nature
Birds and animals never seen
Live their lives in their eternal shade
Tribes unchanged for millenniums
Hunt and forage in the undergrowth
The ancient forests are dying
Cut down for progress
Killed to make room for a road
For oil
For gold
For diamonds
To make man’s life richer
More convenient
Uncaring man sees them only as trees
Not as another world
To be protected…saved
Not be used as a coffee table
Or paneling in a rich man’s den
They are already a home
The tribes live there
The birds live there
Man’s history lives there
Are their deaths worth the loss?
Because the ancient forests
The lives
The history
Cannot
Once destroyed
Never, ever be replaced
My church is gothic, ancient, and smells like wax.
Many business dealings here, all kinds of pacts.
The daddies are sleeping, or pretending, at least.
The mommies are fawning at the cute youngish priest.
We children dare not squirm on these hard little pews.
Our bodies all squashed up, our freedoms are few.
The beautiful stained glass shows us a giant Biblical scene.
I never tire of looking at Jesus in the pasture of green.
Sunlight streams through, it is like God is anointing this place.
The priest sneezes, and he gets really red in the face.
We kids stifle our laughter, and shuffle our feet on the floor.
Mom gives us a look that says “not one time more.”
My church has dark paneling that is ten miles thick.
It is pretty to look at, and the candles lit by alter boy’s wick.
This place is where people have prayed for a hundred years.
There is a sanctity about it, which eliminates my weekly fears.
Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog
the varnished wood paneling on the walls
reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs
in their Art Deco fixtures hanging overhead
the air scented with a mixture of lemon and leather
I see you sitting alone at the bar as you always are
your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red
You greet me as I seat myself at your side
the bartender placing an Old Fashioned in front of me
identical to your own but for an extra orange slice
He knows by now that’s the way I like it
I take a sip as you compliment my dress
then inquire as to how I’ve been since last we met
I tell you that nothing’s changed or I wouldn’t be here
Noticing your glass is nearly empty I order you another
dropping the cherry from my own into it
as Al Bowlly croons a tune about the moon on the radio
I recall how he was killed in the Blitz and buried
in a mass grave as if he was no one of any consequence
You gaze at me with your azure eyes as I light a cigarette
asking once again why I insist on murdering myself
I answer you as I have a hundred times before
I'm already dead as even someone as celebrated
as you will be someday so what does it matter
This is all an absurd fantasy anyway
The real you doesn’t give a damn what I do
My dream house no longer a mega mansion it needs to be
with ceilings so high in them clouds can be seen
No more acres of gardens with streams and ponds and fountains galore
no more glorious stories stacked to heaven floor by floor
Gold leaf decadence covering ceilings and trim
fifty bedrooms with en suites adjoining them
Kitchens massive and elaborate just for show
for a cooking kitchen behind each where meals would flow
Dinning halls and sitting areas a theater or two
elevators near every grand stairway never wear out a shoe
Rooms named for directions such as the east parlor
rooms so large to communicate it echos as you holler
Library with rare wood paneling three stories high
filled with rare books and manuscripts stack to the sky
Powder rooms and rest areas here and there
with hallways and galleries filled with art to stare
Porches and balconies terraces verandas all grandeur
outside is the inside all in gorgeous splendor
A stately foyer as big as a house
laundry rooms and craft rooms and a cat to catch a mouse
These are just a few things my dream house once used to be
but now that I am much older I get more practical with need
For now my dream house just needs to be cozy and clean
with a quiet area to write a poem or two for a feeling serene.