Best Varnish Poems
Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch, don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!
September16th 2015
For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
When June emerges through its gentle rise
The cloak of sunshine bares an amber tint;
Glimmering on our lush fields, that reprise
A varnish of leaves, hued trees now imprint
Morn's luster as crystal rays spill anew
A dazzle, a blush like folks’ warm embrace
While toddlers hop and prance amidst sweet dew,
That frames of light imbue auroral grace :
How birdsong on boughs chirp in reverence
So effortless like this daybreak’s fresh array,
Till prayers bless a god’s omnipresence
Bestowing life in a heavenly way.
Magnificent the grandeur of dome's beam
Until it rests , hanging low yet agleam.
Your best sonnet for John Hamilton's Contest
Written 3/18/2018 : Repost 7/05/2018
Don't fall through the cracks,
through the floorboards
past the pipes
hot water hissing
grey metallic stun gun dull.
Don't land on the basement steps,
slipping on down
bumping the back bone
breaking the fall
with your body gone white like you know it so well.
Don't let the swallow of house
and of home
consume you
in solitude's
greedy embrace
Don't wish the outside
would stop looking in
and impute ugly motives
to trees and to flowers
who have your best interest
in chlorophyll hearts.
Don't taste the floors
on your way down to hiding
Don't dine on splinters
and varnish and wine
Don't master silence
when no one is looking
Don't close your eyes
and pretend you are fine.
Don't slip on sentences
you uttered years ago
down in the basement
in pipes
steaming hot
Don't waste your sentiments
or your existence
on hiding the fact
that you are
what you're not
Don't laugh at paintings
with eyes that console you
on walls that you hung
last July on a whim
Don't think the walls
don't expect you
to call them
if you are in trouble
and losing your color from somewhere within
Don't apply pressure
to fissures in floorboards
to fit your way through
and become
what you lose
It's a lot stronger
to stand and absorb it-
surroundings adore you,
implore you to chose.
The old upright piano sits flush against the wall,
has been hushed into silence, out on the sun porch
Ignored, neglected, but standing erect
I can imagine it was treasured in its prime,..polished, stylish, and new
But age has turned the varnish yellow
The veneer a bit buckled, the bench has been repaired
with clamps, screws, and Elmer’s wood glue
A relic from another time.
Songbooks are still cradled, but pedals are disabled.
We can almost hear its breath exhale, with tinny-rhythmic sighs
Two white keys might stick,...and three or four are chipped...
And tears, chopsticks, hearts and souls were spilled on ivory seas
If only clocks could turn back time
Mother sitting next to me, side by side, ... our worlds aligned
Keeping the rhythm, over and over, measure by measure,
... playing together the “The Blue Danube”.
___
With her hands over mine, pointing out the key of C
And what I can still see,...so clear in my mind..,
are the blue veins of her hands enveloping mine,
leaning into the waltz, a bit off key
(It needed tuning…It always did. Never mattered. Never will)
I was small. My fingers couldn’t reach them all,
those pock-marked, scarred, and magic keys
But the measure of Johann Strauss would bounce off the walls…
She would hum into my ear…
Her soft brown hair would mix with mine
I could smell Breck shampoo, and feel her breath upon my cheek
And feel the music, soft and sweet, classic light…from that old Upright...
A simple tune…the waltz of time
that has played on and on... long beyond her life
and will play on long beyond my own
__________________________________________________________
Today, meandering through the clutter of the local antique store,
I almost tripped and fell over an object partially hidden on the floor!
My hands came to rest on an old-fashioned school desk sitting there.
It reminded me of the one I occupied in my school days, I do declare!
My thoughts drifted back through the misty past to reminisce and ponder.
As I caressed its oaken surface with my fingers, I began to wonder.
Did it once grace a simple one-room prairie schoolhouse in Indiana?
Might it have come from a rustic schoolroom in the state of Montana?
The slanting top of the old desk was scratched and with ink was stained.
I saw faint initials carved by an idle lad whose attention span had waned!
The varnish was worn off the folding seat by many a squirming kid.
Wads of chewing gum still adorned the underside of the folding lid!
I recalled sitting at one of those uncomfortable desks trying to stay awake!
As Miss Ruth droned on and on, all I could think of was the recess break!
The room reeked of oranges and fried egg sandwiches we'd bring to munch.
Kids of means paid a dime to eat finer fare in the lunchroom for their lunch!
I recalled the thwack on my knuckles of Miss Ruth's ruler to get my attention,
And what awaited me at home for misbehavior with growing apprehension!
(A clerk noting my glazed eyes asked, "May I help you sir? Is anything amiss?"
"Nah", I replied. "If you please, I'd like to stand here awhile and reminisce!")
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Canticle of merriment
rings out the silver of bells
a tingle, a jingle chiming
wispy notes across frosty mist,
as hands clasp with a pealed language
warbling the same holiday bliss:
‘let there be peace on this earth’
while ornamental dingers trill
on pines, and around fireplaces.
Seasons cannot duplicate
the joy of Yuletide’s awakening,
for tassels of glorious cheer spill
to herald a reign of winter’s Light,
dressed in tinseled varnish...
until the silver of evening bells
tolls when heaven greets mankind,
and mankind greets Emmanuel’s heaven!
HIV Positive
I am HIV positive that I know,
But I will exercise my civic right,
As my blood continues to flow,
For my views to be heard I will fight.
Known to have been wayward and careless,
That does not mean I cannot be benevolent,
Which had made me to be fearless,
This malady has made me to be malevolent.
I Love playing poker with my dames,
After basking in the euphoria of many liquors,
which has actually earn me my fame,
Soon,I will varnish like the gas vapor.
But,the doctor told me I`m negative,
My blood was mistakenly substituted for,
Ha!this news serve as a purgative.
Starry skies over Damascus
Like a star chart for the
bomber pilots eating
Milky Ways and lives
Chocolate in the desert
for desert in consumption
The poem could stop here
its pretty clear not pretty
Petty lives perambulating
hiding hobbling around
on what was their feet
foundations souls and
is their ruin's wreckage now
The planes feature logos
“Just do it”
“Whiter than white”
“Put the tiger in the tank”
“Eat confectionary be happy”
What an advertising space
for the daily news rounded
up like the refugees
refusing to be refuse
“Powered by democracy”
“Fuelled by share holdings”
“Rocket launches for a better world”
in the weeping nights and days
lactating for another holiday
of some on sunny beaches
oozing oil wells wealth
and inequality
Milk where it needs not be
in luxury not infant powder
hungry breasts run dry by hunger
sapped empty in the face
of some lives counting
more than others where
camouflage is but
a distant varnish
in the pursuit of power
Soon their will be billboards
“Baghdad was not built
in a moment” “Invest in
Kabul” “Concrete for Allepo”
“Live the dream”
“Life liberty and the
pursuit of happy-mess”
“Constructing globality”
Munching away in my
cushioned arm chair
built from greedy land mines
I collude
“You can have your milky ways”
if the bomber pilots did not
eat them all
Whose wives implant their chests
with silicone from
the valley of evil
that forgot
Instead the artificial brain
the heart transplant
Mindful disposition
of humanity
Looking
instead at the stars
spangled banners
of Damascus
Milky ways
There is a big Eucalyptus tree right behind where I live
The trunk is large, with the branches straight and long
When the Arizona Sun is blazing down, makes nice shade
Even when branches die, they still have more to give
At sunset, a breeze will blow through the leaves like a song
The day is over and dues are paid
One recent summer's eve, storm clouds boiled in the West
A quick sand storm, lighting and thunder everywhere
A hard driving rain all night, streets ran bank to bank
The old tree stood fast, passed the test
A dead twisted limb laid on the ground, like saying a prayer
For the state that it was in, had only God to thank
Out of bed at five, hot cup of coffee in my hand
Went outside to make an overall inspection
Was everything still standing, or had everything washed away?
The early morning air was fresh, rain had bathed the land
Looked up and down the street, then in a westerly direction
The old fallen branch, there it lay
It caught my eye, seemed to be the right size
From past work injuries, my knees would go out every now and then
The branch needed a friend and I needed a walking stick
Picked it up,it was around waist high, I knew I had a prize
My work was cut out, had to give a new skin
Some sand paper, couple coats of varnish would do the trick
Took off the old gray scale, down to yellow wood with brown grain
Patched the cracks, so it would not split, couple of wraps of bailing wire
By God, it was starting to show some character
We started to smile and I had a good cane
Like a miracle, saved from the fire
Now as one, we walk together
They are like two beam lights that claim the stage
on a hot summer eve in the middle of a makeshift
floor parkette made of wood, varnish, and lights that aim
They are more than two American dollies dressed
in French lace and boudoir lipsticks
They are idols of the theater talking through
cables and conductive material.
The imagination of the viewers soar as they lose themselves
in the dark curtained stage, where reality has gone dormant
The only sound they hear is the tingly sounds
of unfolding fans made of feather and paper,
by the old vintage theater Madammes who cluck and gossip
in hushed tones when the first dolly gives the other dolly,
a soft kiss.
The End.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boat still waits where water meets the shore,
its hull a ghost of varnish, cracked and thin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
Motor sits idle—no strong hands the throttle to pull
at dawn’s first blush or dusk’s slow-settling din.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
I trace the name he carved with patient score:
Ninnie Poo—paint now like weathered skin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The pines still lean as if they’re listening for
his whistled tune, the hook’s sharp plink within.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
The perch still school where cattails root and sprawl,
untroubled now by his net or his custom-made jig-spin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The lake holds silence, calm and still with languor.
Hushed wooden dock moans, wondering where Dad has been.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
To wander beneath lush morning trees
Imprinting varnish of leaves, anew
When July casts its charm with such ease.
~The mantle of summer decked in reds,
This cycle brings dazzle, to imbue
A warm gust embellished from voile threads.
While meadows parade their sizzled grace ,
I romp along grasses' mellow view
Till sunlight weaves its pour of embrace.
Brooks temperate quide these nimble toes
Lingering on, buds trickle on cue--
My arms tossed in whimsical repose.
Until night gently inks this wild sway ~
A prayer, a moment , this debut
Enthralls my soul...tinged by heaven's ray!
Long has it been maintained,
writing sprang from economic drive and need,
seeing as the cuneiform tablets
were soon interpreted with worldly eyes.
But economics is a stylus scratching lies on clay,
a social science to varnish human selfishness away.
If you see
a man opens
the car door
for a woman ....
He certainly has
a brand new car ...
or a very young
and beautiful mistress
His pride ...
a conquest ...
the gleaming varnish
reminds him of
sensual red woman lips
Excite shining
in his eyes -
you will always
be his number two
13.01.2014
A-L Andresen :))