Best Vacated Poems
I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose Cottage. I was taken by surprise when I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of my inheritance. Her cottage had been vacated when she went into a care home, and sadly she passed away a few years later. Gran had been widowed at an early age so I’d never met grandpa. I was her only grandchild and had such fond memories of spending summer holidays with her.
ripe red strawberries
boiling in the copper pan
I label jam jars
When I pulled into the driveway I was shocked to see how dilapidated the cottage was. Green shutters were hanging off their hinges and paint was peeling from the window frames. I recalled the perfectly manicured lawns and cottage garden flowers which were gran’s pride and joy, now a forest of dandelions sprouted from the lawn and brambles snaked their way through the honeysuckle arch way. I picked my way through the vegetation which was covering the moss covered path and turned the key in the lock; the heavy oak door creaked like my arthritic joints. Gran’s cosy cottage had always been spick and span, but now every surface was covered with a layer of thick grey dust and lacy cobwebs hung from the black beams on all the ceilings. As I wandered through the empty rooms my footsteps echoed on the old pine floorboards which were littered with strips of wallpaper falling from the damp walls. My heart sank when I saw how much work was needed to restore and modernise the old stone cottage, but with time and effort and help from my family I’m determined to bring it back to its former glory
neglected cottage
in need of renovation
rambling roses bloom
Fiction poem for Thesaurus - Abandon or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
POEM AWARDED POEM OF THE DAY
06/14/20
I'm near cuckoo
This Monday blue
A day not eas'ly recommended
for making sense
I'm way too tense
And hung-over to comprehend it
My mind's on the bend
my imaginary friends
are threatening to abandon en masse
I was perfectly sane
till they pissed in my brain
negotiations are at an impasse
It pains me to mention
the bone of contention
menacing our peaceful existence
my voices of own creation
went above their station
with mutinous and unfair persistence
Old Mother Hubbard
had sneaked to the cupboard
to steal skeleton bones for her yapper
the skeletons in-wait
welcomed their bait
with little resistance managed to trap her
As to why she'd no clue
their demands were few
and until met they'd keep her as hostage
twixt two skeletons squeezed
the hag was well-pleased
only in dreams she was ever in bondage
The skeletons vacated
on their long-awaited
crusade for their rights to be equal
a sudden scurry in my head
when the voices I have bred
became hushed, which was rather unusual
The spokes-skeleton
passed a colorless wind
voiced their single demand: to remain
"We were made to vanish
to a dark cupboard banished
we demand henceforth to share your domain."
A resounding "No!
You'll stay down below
we're totaling 20, including the yapper
there's hardly space
the din to embrace
and an hour-long queue to the crapper."
"Then the beldam Hubbard
will remain in the cupboard
lore would have it, bare to the bone
the cupboard, that is
not the hag, whose Maltese
diced up raw will be fed to the crone.
We implore you most
kindly engage our host
in negotiations and if necessary plead
we want into his brain
and share your domain
or prepare for a skeleton stampede."
PART 2 TO FOLLOW. THIS MIGHT TAKE A WHILE, AS I'M LOCKED IN HOSTILE NEGOTIATIONS
Dark And Tragic, When Fate Sets Its Black Hand To Decide
Icy cold had invaded, her heart became a hard frozen tomb
Never again would she allow love to penetrate its new armored shells
That night she had seen one of death's many tragic and ugly faces
Its ancient mask, the one that crushes love's fever and kindness in a mere blink
Now she flows through a vacated life, on wings of sorrow's eternal flight
Awaiting a doom that her crushed soul welcomes in its dark and sunken state.
His death had been tragic, yet made for some of the most interesting news
All the clever twists and turns of an old Hollywood mystery movie script
So ghastly, his head found in the graveyard, atop her lover's white tombstone
His bullet riddled body found miles away in a cheap and tawdry motel room
Perhaps now he knows, how it feels to find Fate's eternal and deadly hand
In his well deserved doom, devil that had sent her into her dark and sunken state.
Robert J. Lindley, 6-30-2018
Prose, ( Tragedy In One Of Life's Screams)
Not For SilentOne's contest
Note : I rarely ever do Prose. Started with the plan to write for SilentOne's new contest but my muse took me ever onward and this became too long to enter.. Giving thanks for the inspiration but it does not meet the eight verse contest requirement.
So I post it now as it is and wonder why my muse so stubbornly refused to stop writing... She vexes me to no end sometimes.....
The cock hasn't been seen in a fortnight
but it's time
the vagabonds have all but vacated
and the windows boarded up
don't tell me I should wait
when waiting is wasting time
there is thistle in my hair
and the sun has burnt her mark
even coffee's stained the past
looking out through the looking glass
while you're looking in
senses spilt her sin
alongside cracks in the concrete
steam lifts off the loathsome
the heated melts the day
it's about time
the mocking bird dismayed
lost the feel of home
there's just no place left to roam
In the end, we were there-not there,
two present absentees
sharing an apartment vacated by a relationship
and the worst kind of loneliness -- feeling solitary next to someone --
partners in the crime of abetting mutual misery,
though neither of us can really be linked
to the crime scene, can we?
We’ve got each other’s alibi.
Memories, Long Sad Journey,
Bitter cold that Saturday morning, late in November 1969, I could see my breath parading before me. No breakfast as I had quietly left the house and started my slow walking trek back to our old home.
Memories flooded my brain with each new turn along that dusty road. Along with questions about why I was now so rebellious. Quicker, walk quicker my heart and soul demanded. Do you not want to touch the bedroom door where you father slept? Slept before that long dark sleep. Slept in such pain and sorrow? Yes, bellowed back my invisible friend.
frosty morning dew
loose pebbles crunched beneath feet
earth, morning sky paled
Halfway there, with my heart racing and anticipation heightened
I could almost imagine a real touch. A real touch, of he now lost, to all eternity!
What wild thoughts come to a teenage soul and mind in its greatest of pains and sorrows. Can death be denied? Can one bring back even for the briefest moment a loved one.. A father, a beloved father!
blackbirds silent view...
light ahead, welcomed beacon
wrapped in winter's sheen
Walking up the short drive and onto the front porch. Only gone away half a year and such change found! Silence, silence engulfed my thoughts. Struck numb as I entered our vacated home. Home were my father had exhaled his last breath. Hand shaking as I reach for that doorknob..
What would I see? His ghost? Would I dare touch his ghost? I walked into cold, lonely room,nothing!
No smile, no hug, no long awaited touch! Only tears, tears by the bucketful.
What had I come to find? Was I crazy to want to see, talk, touch one more time?
one old shoe, lonely
broken window, dusty mounds
bleak abandoned walls
I knew, knew with certainty that this was it. Life gave no overs and no going back to happier times. Terror of that reality, would it ever leave. Would it?
Father is dead and my life is over. I walked out into this dark world ready to fight. Fighting to be left alone, with my never ending sorrow and its sweet cuts. Cuts embraced to keep my rage, to yet again feel something, defeat the icy numbness in a rebellious teenager's aching heart.
Robert J. Lindley, August 5th, 2017
My boyfriend was agitated
Because I was constipated
We'd be late for the game
Of course I was to blame
My butt hole's not dialated
On and on he whined and waited
Use of laxatives, debated
In my gut it was stuck
I could smell it... oh yuck
Boyfriend getting more frustrated
I could hear the game on the phone
I said, "Go. Just leave me alone!"
But he didn't hear me
His team was up by three
Stomach hurt, I let out a moan
Half hour later, he was snoring
I guess the game must be boring
I still sat on the can
Cursing my boyfriend, Dan
Who was no longer adoring.
After being lubricated
I sighed at being elated
Although my butt was sore
I had to poop no more
My bowels had been vacated
I found Dan's note and shook my head
"I had to poop, so went home instead
of waiting for you, Sue.
After this, we are through!"
That's exactly what his note said.
I felt relief, more ways than one
Happy that Dan and I were done
Now I can be alone
When sitting on my throne
No one shouting, "Hurry up, Hun!!"
In the avalanche, I lost track of my guiding light.
I fled my fireside. I had to evacuate my homestead.
Driven far astray by frenetic frozen fright,
I was just a cowardly racing rescuing airhead.
The wounded wooden face of my brother
lugged away by paramedics in a wheelchair.
My tomb of sleep was my 3 am druthers.
But I called 911, puzzling at my sibling’s stare.
Living and dying from underworld to mountaintop,
the EMTs raised him off the floor like a bag of potatoes.
Everything was breathing pollen and allergen nonstop.
All my raw instincts lacked right or wrong thought flows.
It’s true; I lost poetry. I abandoned my paintings, my pottery,
as though the subverting season of AI sophistry reigned supreme,
as though all creativity was randomized in a human lottery,
as though all consciousness is reduced to a particle beam.
Vacant, these weary eyes roll up in my head.
Vacant, how much long-term despondency to endure?
My brother lives and dies each day in his bed,
defenseless, like a never healing wound with no cure.
My days are distractions, a mad confusing deflection.
I vacated my poetic home, my fireside muse.
I raft the unfamiliar caregiver currents without reflection.
I can’t live forever homeless, maintaining the caregiver ruse.
Sleep now, my brother, knowing life offers you another aim.
Tap resilience from your broken body. This will clear your mind.
My pallet for tending, nourishing, and wiping deserves no acclaim.
Nobody asks for these duties. No one can ever put them behind.
I’ve been deserted and forsaken,
relinquished and reawakened.
Renounced and completely vacated,
living a life intensely complicated.
In the throes of woes, I’m saturated.
No more time of sincere elation,
now only a lonely sensation.
To this pain shall I surrender?
I used to touch a hand so tender.
Now I’m an abdicated offender.
I’ve been abandoned, left to die,
no one said I must comply.
Though I’ve been pushed aside
there’s nowhere I can hide.
I’m chained up, arms tied.
Full of repudiation and rejection,
I lost life’s balanced connection.
I fear the worst has come to take
my one and only mistake.
From this nightmare I must awake.
Thrown over the reverie’s shore,
taken away from those I adore.
Disowned and insanely combusted
from all those that I trusted.
Now I’m the one mistrusted.
So I must renounce and give in.
I crave atonement for my sin.
Turn myself over to cruel intentions,
death shall come with circumvention.
I pray God comes with intervention.
Fear arrives as I’m the one who runs,
though life is the one who abandons.
Abandon Contest
Brenda Chiri
June 10, 2018
Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Soul
(Third and Final Poem- In A Parable style)
Come on down here says the spider to fearful fly
this day weather is so fine and I am your friend
be free, and into my soft web, you shall not die
for greater pleasure come hither, your time here spend.
Now wise old owl looks on, hears and sees this charade
and in loud blasts hoots out his own angry replies
for mother Nature, hath all living creatures made
within her heart of hearts hears all their weeping cries.
Spider hears wizened, infuriated owl's blasts
continues to spin deeper and deeper spun threads
Fly sails on as if a yacht with windblown full masts
trap now seen, his former pals in their web-spun beds.
Spider feverishly works, other flies are caught
so goes vicious cycle, dark webs eating their fill
for flying blind, their souls are easily thus bought
with time and darkness, their ink-heart blood slowly spills.
Soon, escaped fly returns, so do ill winds of old
time has done its job and all fear has left his head
web is so pretty, its threads glisten as if gold
vacated are those warning, fat and well spun beds.
As those droplets lure fly in, owl hoots warning call
but gleaming hope has turned off his sight and his brain
in he goes, hungry spider watching sees it all
giving thanks for those huge glistening drops of rain.
Come on down here says the spider to fearful fly
this day weather is so fine and I am your friend
be free, and into my soft web, you shall not die
for greater pleasure come hither, your time here spend.
Now wise old owl looks on, hears and sees this charade
and in loud blasts hoots out his own angry replies
for mother Nature, hath all living creatures made
within her heart of hearts hears all their weeping cries.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-29-2018
Rhyme(Third and Final Poem in Trilogy)
Note- To be added later.... after I post the third blog on this subject.
They loiter
in memory's mausoleums,
old chants,
those gilded liturgies,
ready to resurrect
and eat through the ear
with promises
under the finery
of polished myth.
Grafted onto our very bone,
these structures scaffold history
and who we are.
Now, stripped of flesh,
they moan
and rattle the dark
when given voice
by savage winds.
I have heard
the haunting echo left
in the wake
of their going.
Emptied of substance,
these vacated vaults
house only noise
from human ghosts.
I have listened
for the faint whisperings
beyond the worn out
replays of the dead,
for something transcending
numbers and name -
hear only the wind.
I keep telling myself
this is enough.
Frosty Words
Written: by Tom Wright
4/7/2018
I allot time to past words frosty in flight,
They’re like chains or a promise unbroken.
By vacated words I frequently feel contrite,
But vociferous words cannot be unspoken.
Words are like arrows departed from quiver,
Once released from a bowstring can’t return.
Whatever the intended message, they deliver,
And the recipient cannot your heart discern.
Once frosty words are released on a course,
And settled in on their intended quarry;
Though we seek forgiveness and feel remorse,
These same spent words return to inventory.
L. MESSI vs C.RONALDO™
They're two male G. O. A. T
striving for the throne:
One named Lionel, other named Cristiano,
One aged 35. The other aged 37,
One is seen as a god,
The other as super hero.
One hails from ARG????, the other from POR????.
One owns & bosses the no 7,
The other dons the iconic 10.
Who's every kids model & ladies crush? Cr7????
Who's every man's dream & hero? M10????
Who's every defenders nightmare? Lionel Messi.
Who's every goalies daredevil? Cristiano Ronaldo.
Who is the media's own son? L. Messi.
Who's journalist black sheep? C.Ronaldo.
Lionel is like the last born of the house
who can do no wrong even when he's wrong,
pampered long enough in mama's house (Barça)
and finally released abroad when he's older.
Cristiano is the first born of the family
who pilgrimages to fend for himself (Lisbon - Madrid),
And takes the blame or responsibility for others
(even United's 21/22 trophyless season blame
was hinged on him despite his scoring exploit).
One mount on praises and adulation,
The other feeds-off criticism & respect.
The throne became void when our forefathers:
Pele & Maradona vacated the hot seat.
Now, the age-long tussle has to sly once & for all.
Fanatics, let's crown the new GOAT,
Give what belongs to Caesar to Caesar
And what belongs to GOAT, the accolades.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© December2022.
Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!
He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!
His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!
Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!
The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
In this world that I live in, man has lost over and over again.
He can’t win from his sins and he is damned.
He formed a country for his freedoms, but he enslaved people and
oppressed the origin and now he negates another.
When will he learned that forgiveness is not known.
That his tomorrows are his troubles for what he has done.
Hello (from) the other side.
I know I ruminate the mind.
Within the statuses of man, life is prominence to the power he has.
His significance is that of enslavement and oppression.
His freedoms he demanded brought him to our shores.
That of North America.
Once vacated, he manifested his vision.
His mission has become tainted and his life is unchained to do more evil.
Hello from the outside.
Your reflections - described.
Rune descents pit.
Symbolizing terrific fits.
Massive to suicide as they take lives.
Focus is occult.
Terror diabolically sought.
Will it stop - Will it stop now?
Hello (from) the other side.
A mind - revived.
Caucasoid
White boys
Who I speak of?
What is wrong with this world -
No true religion?
Are they atheist – non-believers?
Hello from the outside.
Harbinger of time...
A free thinker personified.
______________________________________|
Written January 16, 2016!