Best Playhouse Poems
On days of childhood past
and long faded into memory,
sisters played beneath a smiling sun
in shadowed rooms of bending willows.
Dainty handkerchiefs swaddled
our Rose of Sharon infants
to keep the newborns warm;
honeysuckle spread sweet fragrance
scenting the summer playhouse
while birds trilled lullabies of joy.
Clover chains hung as garlands
to decorate our home
and snowball bushes' spread
perfumed blossoms carpeting the floors.
Simple pleasures of a simple life
we seem to have discarded
in favor of a busier, artificial plastic world
where flowers bud stale fabric blooms
on bending wires.
The evensong of the whip-poor-will is no more.
I would go back if I could harvest
the pureness of those happy hours,
distilling a rare elixir,
a medicine for our ailing times.
Copyright, November 25, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
I dig into the open wounds of self preservation,
and hear
...from way over there,
my love jingling in your pocket
as if it were the loose change
in your wet dreams.
You were always numb to the mirror,
taking comfort in the blind eyed
discontent you've reigned in
with hard strokes of denial,
making your makeup seem
a little more made up in the dim lighting
of reflection.
Don't you think?
It was never about making love,
it was about forgetting.
My hips were a glowing red exit sign,
on the route of
....screwing life away.
Each moan, a promise that
even though you were dead inside,
you could still make a piece of the
world shake.
Maybe even make something break.
And that made everything seem
a bit more tolerable...
until I started thanking you
for the damage inflicted.
The pain I felt, assurance
that I was alive.
I'm not sure why that
took the fun out of it
for you..
I still screamed bloody murder
when you sunk your teeth into
newly adjusted nerve endings..
The pain, more real than ever before.
I guess you never meant to
take a ride with someone just as
damaged as you.
You were hoping to be the only
ghost in this city, still bound
to a carnal playhouse.
But baby..
I was a corpse long before I had any change to spare.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
My gray head turns aghast,
broken glass, broken glass,
two by fours, without their walls.
Floors lifted by years of rain,
walls hanging on in vain,
nothing is as I recall.
The trees encroach, strangle hold.
The mice nest, keep out cold.
Green makes a moldy pall.
When young I played here.
The rooms were full of cheer
now mice and bugs, creep and crawl.
My playhouse, stone, still stands.
Dad built it with his hands.
Can you see my childish scrawl?
Through the bramble bush I leave
memories to relieve.
Can you hear my soft footfall?
Balassi Stanza
I got a lot of thoughts
rolling around in my head
Idea marbles,
colored black, blue, white and red
That’s very Afro-American of me
to be thinking this way
This ol’ noggin’ got a pocketful of idea marbles,
do you wanna play?
Let’s build something, what do ya say?
It gets pretty noisy upstairs sometimes,
adults sure love to fuss and argue a lot
So lets go to the playhouse
of our dreams
and tinker around
Gonna piece together a lightning quick social go-cart,
fastest dispensing of charity you ever did see
I love seeing compassion take the last lap of victory
What else can we build swiftly before dinnertime,
how ‘bout a love kite that flies higher than cloud nine
Let it get caught in the tail wind of a mighty breeze,
watch all the hatred disappear beyond the trees
I’m so glad you wanted to play
with my idea marbles today
Colorful thoughts that every adventurous child
should have, I pray,
as their 24th century learning toy
Curiosity that’s never put away
by any daring girl or boy
Locks of golden hair
Embrace her angelic face
Happiness all hers
Sadness not a trace.
She dances like the wind
Ice-skating is a breeze
What a talented child
She does it all with ease.
She has two loving parents
And little brother Vaughn
A dog, a cat, her own playhouse
What a wondrous life has dawned.
This adorable little girl
A picture of perfection
Her parents do adore
Their darling little Madison.
Today is another day
Yesterday in the past adrift
Tomorrow the future play
Today is a sparkling gift
Another day here we go
It's a new opportunity
Another day of worthy bestow
With hope and possibility
To ourselves, honesty and trueness
In the blink of an eye, another day at bay
Whence comes another battle for life's fullness
Tomorrow is more than just another day, hooray
Every day is a playhouse show
Another day to be bold and daring
What's done is done, let it go
Today will never come again caring
Another day to explore
I'm thankful for...!!
(This poem is not directed at innocent spouses)
Chlamydia
Chlamydia, Chlamydia,
How do we get rid of ya.?
Take up painting,
Stay at home.
Learn to play the saxophone.
Raise Chihuahuas.
Learn cabinetry.
Take ballet lessons,
Make furniture for the family.
Write a novel,
Even if it stinks,
Don’t drown yourself in alcoholic drinks.
Write a poem
Raise a horse.
Cleaning up the stable,
Will keep you on course.
Stop feeling sorry,
For yourself,
Chlamydia feeds
On the dissatisfied elf..
Take up philoso-phy,
Learning to think
Helps keep your mind free.
Don’t become a societal leach,
Look at the ocean.
Go and lay down on the beach.
Enjoy the essence of your town,
The people, the smells, and the sounds.
Notice things you never noticed before.
(That will keep you off the floor.)
Get a cat or a dog,
It will even be good if you tended a frog.
Make it not always, “me, me,me”
Build a playhouse in a tree
Do good for the helpless,
Young and elder-ly.
Social disease is for people who have no good aims.,
And play too many selfish games.
Most of all,
Go pray in Church.
The Creator will never,
Leave you in the lurch.
two story abode-
old white wooden planks and beams…
oh how I loved you
strong structured built frame -
cool basement to store; protect…
a great hiding place
vast playroom closet –
just right for a huge playhouse…
imagination
wood stove radiates -
prepares meals and heats downstairs…
sore bone therapy
family room collage -
old radio plays music…
period to relate
bedtime for four kids -
one bed keeping all cozy…
north room harbors ghosts
Copyright © 2015 By Caryl S. Muzzey
9/17/15
First Place Winner ~ "A child's first home" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Verlena S. Walker
September 30, 2015
beauty, blessing, January, magic, moon, sunset, winter
A SEASON’S GLOW ©
‘Bastille’ winter-lodes wait anticipating the reserved and affected invasions of the sun’s setting rays, to lay its' mark upon her surrounding ice-capped winter hood---
Fortifying ‘arms’ now stand saluting at attention to the expected deluges to carnival delights from the setting sun….
Applause from ‘knightly’ lances carry a shadow-display, when brought to arms;
'toe-elbowing' their stances to a light bright multiplexed review….
Eventide’s soon to reach cosmic nighttime ceilings and is brought momentarily to stands aside, to hushed warnings off snow iced platforms gaining cheery fire-light at each kissed by-pass retreat….
At devotion ‘arms’ stretch their winter façades 'drawing' close their 'painted' ‘four o’clock’ shadows; that mark out each stance---
Alas, the playhouse ‘adieus’ end with sad commendations; when staged dimmed lights snuff and flicker out to blackness.
Nighttime slants and an interval is at hand, for waning sun’s rays, to dismiss their stationed sentinels over to moonlit beamed doom---
Night plagues with harmonizing rhythms; as ice-tinkling ‘icicles’ from branches high salute the night time, sky-faerie's lite and dance upon a new stage!
I was said to have mingled with the masses,
moving mysteriously through the multitudes unexpectedly,
familiarizing myself with countless souls, still they
don't know who I am.
Being destructive- that's me, ravaging- that's me,
causing havoc where ever I go is what I'm accused of,
still they don't know who I am.
I swept society away like a fierce wind devouring
everything in my path - women, men, children without
discrimination. I simply love how you point fingers
blaming each other, still you don't know who I am.
I've severely affected the growth of populations,
devastatingly infected people from every race,
creed, background on this planet, still they don't know
who I am.
Parties, experimental drugs & promiscuity are
a few of the things I indulge in, one night of careless
whispers & you won't forget me, still you don't know
who I am.
Lurking like a rapist in the dark of the night,
violating, attacking with unrelentless vigor, leaving
behind a path of fear & confusion, still you don't know
who I am.
And now without further adieu, coming to the stage -
I introduce. . . . . . Death is the final curtain call,
welcome to the playhouse of AIDS.
As we stop, I pull out my jar of Vic's vapor rub
I put some up my nostrils, this job you cannot love
But it pays the bills, I make my living
Trash day is when people are most giving
They are selfless when getting rid of what they see as junk
Whew! That smell from the back of a garbage truck
I spot a pair of shoes for my kid
I will wash them first, get rid of the odor of rotted squid
My niece's birthday is coming up soon
I found a playhouse with dishes, forks, cups and spoons
It's family night tonight at home
The unknown video I found will be shown
Finding the right stuff is a matter of luck
It is just my point of view from the back of a garbage truck
I found a half a bucket of KFC
I take a smell, it smells as fresh as can be, what a surprise for my family
Two hours later, the family can't keep their meal down
They are so ungrateful about the food I found
I am on a strict budget, I have to find a way to save a couple bucks
More dinners will be found because I work on the back of a garbage truck
Great Lone Tree, So Beautiful
Great lone tree standing in the middle of Harper's lot
weathering all attacks from so many enemies it has got
Struck eleven times by lightning in as many years
last one burned so hot that sap burst forth like tears!
First plague was ten thousand locusts eating it's fruits
next came grub worms devouring it's sweet tender roots
After that first fire came burning high above it's trunk
then came the woodpeckers pecking out chunk by chunk!
Next the teenage boys driving in nails for a playhouse
adding to the big holes bored so deeply by a wood mouse
Second fire burned it's trunk until hard rain put it out
followed by six years of county's hottest, longest drought
Great lone tree had weathered so many terrible attacks
insects gnawing ever deeper it's long and deep cracks
These many years it gave it's fruit and comforting shade
it's life beaten but that majestic beauty never did fade
Great lone tree stood reaching ever upward to Mother Sky
enduring all while so stubbornly refusing to ever die!
Robert Lindley 06-10- 2014..
Rewrite from the late 70's. Based on the huge mulberry tree
in vacant field just behind our house.. So beautiful but one
could see the many scars it had endured yet still survived!
I used to pick the mulberrys in the bountiful years!
Mother would make cobbler from them and it was glorious
The first day
God came face to face.
Spring, in front of the tree
That had forgotten roots and leaves.
The slender note of complaint
Made to its friends
By the cloud that got lost.
The goddess’ voice
Unheard by any but water.
The flower garden
In front of which
Grass grew with abandon.
The darkened house,
Floor smeared with cow dung.
A cluster of moments
Of butterflies cavorting in the rain.
The playhouse
Made of the wings of fireflies and moths.
The seaside
Where camels enjoy the breeze.
The forgotten oyster
The fry left
Under the sand.
The praying hands
Of date palms
Which looked upon earth from above.
The wedding night
Inside the elephant shelter
Where ants frolic.
A pinch of beaten rice,
Cooked, using only the twigs the pigeons brought.
The anthology of words
Read and re-read
In a hand-written letter.
The translation of the moment
God couldn’t quite get.
What could it have been?
Covered daughter with kisses.
She wept, alarmed.
I heard the voice of God telling daughter,
”I didn’t grasp anything either!”
After sixty-six years, what remains of first love
Is just your name really, but still it lingers,
Like the fragrance of a rose petal kept in a diary.
It may seem strange to some, but I do call it love
Though we were only 1st graders, wishing on a star.
At recess you were Dale Evans
And I was Roy Rogers, as I recall,
There was a commitment of sorts for sure,
Our fantasy roles of a future adulthood
Already including both individuality and marriage,
What we knew of heart freely given.
It was clear that others wanted what we had too.
I’m sure that was part of its appeal.
I remember clearly that at least one time
You and your mother came to my house and
I proudly showed you the playhouse that
Mom and I had constructed on our front porch
Out of old appliance cartons from Dad’s store,
Their wood ribbed cardboard panels perfect
For erecting sturdy fantasy structures
That resembled a real house,
Windows and doors carved easily where desired
Using a paring knife in the softer cardboard.
I know I wanted to kiss you and think I told you,
But, I am also pretty certain that it didn’t happen.
I suspect you told your mother, for I believe it was
Your last visit, though I don’t regret wanting the kiss.
And then you just vanished from my life,
Your family moved away, to Freedom, Oklahoma,
Which was like going to the moon at our age.
I discovered this only recently from another friend
Who was also enamored of you. Know for sure that
We both hope you found freedom,
Even sixty-six years later, and still dream
That you, perhaps, think fondly of us as well.
May this poem compensate somehow for the kiss
That you and I both missed, as I honor too,
The young boy who first gave you his heart.
Brian Johnston
October 11, 2015
confusion, memory, poets, mind, thoughts, man, writing
THOUGHTS UNLIMITED© +
My mind is unlimited I am told
Forever craving a thought to hold
Even has an over active drive-way
For all thoughts shuffled my way
Stream-lined mind-tools are ‘drilled’ to mold a mirror image
Lost memories lead to question one-minded traveler's ‘mental’ range
Headaches set to ‘blow a mind’ far into deep cavern insanity
And all given minds do seek answers to human mortality
My evolving mind has playhouse T.V’s. ‘set’ to multi-power drive
And shows in (all sizes) up to one big screen high-definition ‘live’
Minds sweep with rhythmic pictures at smells, tastes and sightings
Set down into slowed ‘cacophonies’ of thought match-booked writings!