Carpeted Poems | Examples

GAME OF CAT AND ROBIN

my russian blue cat
static like a statue
on the sun-warmed
window ledge

laser-focused eyes
fixate
on the gum tree
leaves tremble
then still

shrewd cat waits
wet nose
smearing the glass

a robin’s fleeting shadow
darts across
a pool of sunlight
diving into
the center of the light
then swooping back again
in a blur of motion

my cat pounces
chasing the robin
around
the carpeted floor

over and over
he paws at
the imaginary catch
but each time
elusive robin
slips away

Rave In My Room By Candlelight

Beneath flashing string of neon lights
Lining the top of wall and ceiling
Of my room with a window of town sights,
I dance to trance music so freeing.

Beneath me on a table a glowing candle,
As I gently twirl around my room,
I begin to grab something to handle,
Loudly singing while holding my broom.

Beneath me on a shelf is a speaker
Loudly broadcasting trance radio.
I dance until I feel so much weaker,
While I imagine every party scenario.

Beneath me is a carpeted floor,
In which I dance barefoot,
Music blaring through the door,
As I fall and spill all of the ash tray's soot.

Christmas

Christmas is a long song sung in winter,
An epic poem written with white quill feather pen and
Gold ink, and on clouds of paper,
Beginning from a sneezing December to a
Dizzying twelfth-calendar month,
When snow drizzles gently into the souls of
Those who hearken to the tinkling sound of
The church bell which rings gently with the weight of
The slow-passing season.

I see whiteness in every song, with so much redness;
Regal and romantic; flagrantly friendly.
Oh, how pure!
Oh, how sweet!
Well, that’s Christmas.
It lights up the courage in us to think right and assume
Merriment in the warmness of some frozen hearts.
It’s the best time of the year.
I swear to this because I am a child of Christmas.
It’s a time of fog and dew and sleet that rebaptise us.
Let’s not forget the slanting rain whose liquid kisses us.
And white Christmas of snow-carpeted lands and seas.
There’s no other time or season like it.

So full of gentleness and love,
Christmas causes hearts to race s-l-o-w-l-y,
As the year races on to breast the tape of seasons.

A Contemplation Upon Weeds

Dewdrops kiss my skin
A silver coat over my shoulders, green
There's magic in every morning. 
In the atmosphere wafts perfumes of earths daughters
They sway their hips,
they nod their heads
petals fall at my feet.
The floor is carpeted with beautiful hues
red, white and purple too
The birds come piping morning's tune.

Flophouse

     Portraits of hedgehogs on his grimy tiled walls
        Pete did for good taste what heat does for snow balls  

     Though a weird kind of charm lay on his carpeted floor
        Not hedgehogs, but bedbugs as Pete flopped kissed him like whores

Myself

My brain hurts.
In sync.
With itself.
I could be…
Inside. 
With no windows. 
But they give me a window anyway. 

My heart sits.
When I am screaming. 
But also not doing anything.
I wish that,
I could knock over the glass vase.
That is silent as me. 

My arms are weak. 
I can’t give myself a push. 
On the swing. 
That promises to come back to me. 
But it is too tiring for now. 

Your

Brain hurts for no reason. 
The reasons you force yourself to cry about. 
Are not funny. 
But you are. 

Your heart sits patiently. 
Seemingly not doing much. 
The silence. 
Is a whirling, unique silence. 

Your arms are weak…
From doing push ups. 
There are no enemies. 
Just the carpeted floor with a mat on it. 
There are no enemies. 

Just you.

Quiet

It will never be quiet again.
The kitchen.
Dripping water.
Tapping sounds. From outside, inside, outside, inside…
I might sleep someday.
On the floor, 
The floor toils and trembles.

The walls were repainted since then.
Then there were crackling sounds from within.
I can sit still in a chair all day.
Until the chair tumbles away.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Lying on the floor- not carpeted.
It had been three days.
I slept, but don’t remember.
The picture on the wall shifted and contorted.
In my dreams, my dreams…

It was never quiet again.

The Purple Moon

Violet dreams drenched and soaked in fantasy, vapors of the most imaginative kind.  
In this fantasmal Universe live little magical volatile people, both sentient and  blue.  
Carpeted with lawns that respire and breathe in the middle of night, stand unusual trees capable of reviving their foliage at the speed of light. 
Dark vultures of karmic lineage live pre-cautiously inside the crevices of this long abandoned moon. 
Magical runes spiel inside and around tiny silver makeshift orbs, spinning they imitate what was once a functional moon rotating on its axis. 
Today this  model moon is used as a place where people go to access their dreams and turn them into reality. 

to be continued...

Goolin Ghoul

breek n brare
along a carpeted hall
bax n goolin oft is a ghoul
betrackeding down a creakeding stair
trumble n frumble n deatheding fall

Sea Glass

Sea Glass From Mother Nature’s Jewel Box

She gives us…

Hummingbirds with wings aflutter, a symphony for cherry blossoms
Sunset, moonrise primordial orbs, magic looms
Shooting comets that grace every sky
Twinkling stars that wink on ebon nights
then wane and vanish in sunlight

She reciprocates …

Over the sands of time She forms and fashions troves of jewels
Refuse, shards of glass litter discarded and strewn
Sanded and polished by briny waves magically glazed frosty verglas
Trading trash and abuse with gifts
Sea glass gems washed ashore
Stones resembling emeralds, amethyst, ruby’s,
turquoise crystals displayed on the soft carpeted shores
Wishes to have seen this newfangled beauty
She once gifted us exquisitely
A rare sight as less litter evinces Her gifts scarce
I wonder was She by us coerced?
Ample reasons for us to quit littering 
if not, there are more

Texts at Midnight

My bed is next to me.
It’s not enough.
Carpeted floors tickle.
The fan is making me dizzy.
My parents are in their dreams.
I pretend to dream as well.
I suddenly jolt.
I could do it, I could walk into their room and start crying and screaming, out of control…
I take out my phone and text them.
They can check their messages in the morning.
And learn that I lost my mind.
But I don’t want to bug them for now.
“Hey I’m transcending reality, the fan is painful, my bed is crazy, I hate this room, it makes me remember,”
I hit send.
“Love you.”
I hit send.
A smiley face.
I hit send.
And feel a little better.

SIT-UPONS

Sit-upons that we wove together.
The troop activity. How many spots
will remember me?

The wicker basket and picnic blanket
woven into the amphitheatre. We,
my hubby and I,
cozied up, listened to Amy Grant.

My towel, with the Caribbean islands,
sinking in the warm sand, waiting
for my salt-sea body to rest.

My familiar easy chair,
the grandkids are always
welcome to share.

The pews that retain glory and praise
on Sundays and Wednesdays.

The split-level stairs,
carpeted teal,
where I oft sit and watch
somersaults
and converse with a houseful.

There are the horses,
that lent their backs,
brought me to greater heights -
walked me on the Cozumel beach,
‘round Yukon’s emerald lake,
and one that wanted to dive off a cliff,
“whoa…no!” I took control.

On my childhood bed,
so close to my sister-cousin.
We laughed and shared -
now it's only in my memory.

The yellow bus, -
my hopes and dreams were sown
within its polyester seats.

So many places where I sat,
brimming above or below the surface.
So many places we stay and go.
We squat, recline, attack.

snooty cat queen

the persnickety, snooty, snotty cat queen put on airs
as if there were not a ridiculous succulent on her head
I watched her climb those red-carpeted prissy throne stairs
and thought she must be low class, common, and pretty lowbred.

Through The Echoes Of All Time

Travel with me and enter 
into the flower carpeted mountain meadows
of my youth;   
Lose yourself  in the wild beauty which resides within  
God's tinted skies of yellow and vermouth.
Vested memories held captive by eidetic moments,   
"Oh blessed beating heart, " 
enter the flowered thoughts of a poet's nest, delve into the  
sanctuary of God's Grace, 
for it is here that you belong.  
Seen through the eyes, felt with the heart 
ensconced with a soul your free to roam, 
inside roads less traveled, where timeless voices
are heard, through the echoes of all time.
 
You belong to the One who has given you,
both shape and creed.

The Mouse And The Moon

When an owl with a scowl had his eyes on the prowl
In search of a savoury bite
A little brown mouse poked his nose from his house
Unafraid as a full moon shone bright

And the owl rocked his head till his night vision said,
“My supper just came into sight.”
But cicadas don’t sing when owls take to the wing
So, in silence, the mouse stood to fight.

A screech in the night as the owl got a fright
And an end was put to his endeavours
A most gruesome sight as the ground left and right 
Was carpeted with blooded feathers

The mouse ate his fill of his ill fated kill
Then dragged the remains to a warehouse 
The cats and the rats will be glad of the meal
Supplied courtesy of the Weremouse

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