Oh humble house slippers, you soft little ships of delight,
you ferry my feet through the kingdom of home;
two cushioned clouds that daily take flight,
turning each hallway into a daydreaming roam.
You’re pocket-sized hearths for my wandering toes,
warm as a secret the morning keeps close;
you curl at my heels like a cat in quiet repose
whispering comfort in ways only I know.
Domestic bliss hides in your argyle disguise~
a spell stitched in fabric, comfort in your tread;
you teach me that peace often comes in small size,
and joy sometimes starts where my footsteps are led.
They changed their flags before sunrise,
and called it weather.
By noon the microphones were blooming
like plastic flowers in dust.
Reporters asked straight questions;
answers arrived sideways,
oiled and smiling,
wrapped in patriotic ribbon.
A man declared himself the nation,
the worker, the owner,
the speech, the applause,
the hand that signs its own praise.
He wore green glasses in famine
and praised the harvest.
He wore dark glasses in fire
and admired the shade.
Truth stood outside barefoot,
waiting to be invited in.
No one heard her knock
above the cutlery of ambition.
Wherever the platter was fullest,
there rolled the faithful.
Principles were folded neatly
and kept for ceremonial days.
Someone asked why the hen
still sat upon the egg.
The minister promised progress,
a cushioned chair by evening.
We laughed, because laughter
is cheaper than revolt.
We laughed, because the room
was wired to record our silence.
And still, every season,
the chair arrives before justice.
so high,
yet I leap
with confidence...
knowing i'll be cushioned below
by you, hence, I'm more inclined
to take any chance
you are my safety net,
the sun that warms my skin
when the world grows
too cold to bear
so high,
yet I leap
with confidence...
because you've got
my back, literally. I am
a feather floating down with thee
to a soft landing. hosanna!
you're my parachute,
that's why I leap
from the highest of heights
without trepidation or misgivings
so high,
yet I leap
with confidence...
32.
Christmas Gift
I cannot give you a teddy bear
Nor a pair of shoes so fair
Not an apple, grapes nor pear
Never a soft-cushioned chair.
I cannot give you a bounty cash
Earned so slow, but spent so fast
Hurts my pocket, gives it lash
Damn that money that don't last.
The only thing I can give you, dear
Is a greeting so sincere
“May your Christmas for this year…
Be filled with smiles – full of cheer!”
-12/14/08
(Dumarao)
*for Nene Angel…her assignment
A picturesque snow dancing iced winter rings,
imagine its artic coat tail’s sheer zoom,
frosty shriek from children who flaunt its soft melt flake,
the zeal unleashed by doting winter veteran kin attachment,
if adult figures shiver they might whoop,
as well as gorge ravenously on a chilled feast,
from cascade to wobbly ad hoc cold spurt gaze fixer,
snow is both Christmas rampant friend and foe,
aching frostbitten trees with swirls and limp splatters,
gardens bear the ruthless onslaught,
of wispy white sourdough layers,
hoarse vocal mantra cushioned quiver,
in that agile limb shudder on a surface torrent,
fantasy upon fun-filled fantasy such wonderland entanglement,
immerse oneself in the occluding snowball sphere,
camaraderie of fellow eye dazzled worshippers,
at the swooning atmospheric glacial shrine tangible,
of frozen vapour tickling and teasing awestruck mirth,
so ephemeral in its momentary winter surreal deluge,
yet impactful mind lodger so audacious in its billowing beauty
He's awake in the day and night's nothing new
The sleepless man watches it all unlike the ordinary few
He's well aware of the chirping of birds and the noises of crickets
He knows the secret of knight of the night, he doesn't wear a shining armor
The knight crawls beneath the surface of the dreams of ladies- fatherless, loveless
He watches the dawn and the dusk, he knows the smell of the mist and husk
Though he kept a tooth under his pillow, his faith upon the tooth fairy ran shallow
He dreams of being able to dream one night, to close his eyes yet be blessed a beautiful sight
Eyes of the beholder were bored even of nature's wild canvas
But beauty rested upon a yonder damsel.
She shimmered with dusk’s last gold and dawn’s first silver.
Her moonlit eyes spoke tender tunes that even the morning birds grew envious of.
Her song felt like a cushioned cradle shaped perfectly for him alone.
Her presence was so graceful it tucked him in warmth—
elegant, gentle, subtle.
And humming to that tone, the sleepless man surrendered to eternal slumber.
You make me think of a city
of spires and minarets
suspended in the purple
focus of a dusk
that seals the bitter bargains
of sinister bazaars
where gems and crystals mingle
the clatter of their light
with dizzying aromas
of saffron, incense, mint,
where silks as pale as moonlight
and red as blood on snow
and blue as desert noons
stain the heavy breeze
that falls through crumbling alleys
and stirs the scented curtains
of richly cushioned chambers
where lacquer, brass, and jade
receive helpless blossoms
of indolence and passion,
while from the far horizon,
beyond the groaning spars
that throw a crazed lattice
across the dying sky,
startled gulls reiterate
their clean, remote despair.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
19 when I got married,
claimed that I was his world his love.
if only I knew... love so bitter it had to be my mother-in-laws' early coffee
it's absurd - the comparison I mean.
judging from her sweet pollen gestures, wolf in sheep's clothing I tell you,
she wasn't the only one with a mask.
I've had my fair share of pearls tea and gossip.
a silver serpent caging me from the inside, of course no one knew about it.
I can't find my notes but I think he might,
it makes no difference to me though,
it's about time he learns he has competition,
might make him love me more,
might bring me closer to 6 cushioned wood walls,
might bring me some peace.
what is peace anyways? why love when loss is guaranteed?
lower your expectations, it minimises the pain.
love me when it's relevant.
I don't know if I've actually had enough of it all or not?
I can see
Your smile entranced me
gaze mesmorised me
Your lips cushioned me
your eyes held my look
at your svelte figure
I can feel
Your arms enfold
my need for you
your tender touch
your need for me
I can hear
Your heart beat
your passion's
liveliness
I can smell
Chanel
perfume
I can taste
Love
These past few weeks,
Orion’s been making his steady descent down the horizon.
This occurs yearly,
one thing you can count on through the world’s unending turbulence.
It’ll never fail to throw you from your cushioned seat
face-first into forced adaptation
and deep discomfort.
Will there ever be a time where I can look to the horizon
without seeing the next bend in the road?
Will I ever not fear what’s to come
and what’s to be lost
as soon as I steal a shred of comfort?
My joys are here and now,
but I can’t say with certainty that I’m sitting there with them.
I’ll always be at arm’s length,
already halfway across spacetime
to the next star in Orion’s Belt.
New Orleans’ 1962 ostentatious hotel lobby
extravagant crystal fluted chandeliers
highly polished walnut counter tops
opulent Italian marble floors
plush scarlet velvet cushioned couches
swankly brass and glass décor
luxury never seen after nineteen sixty-two
plump posh plush puffy
pretty, poufy, plaid purple pillows
providing cushioned comfort for Cali
enthusiastically enjoyed by boyfriends
encouraging enlightening enthusiasm
for comfort, coziness, and calmness.
Historically the books are written by a well-known writer
The characters are formed to choose the sense of flight or fighter
The library of the mind stows away the facts from the fiction
The sequence of events unfold, memorised with restriction
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
The imagery of barricades in a crowded stark front room
Foreboding silence and tension create a sense of doom
In the old terraced house, there’s a closure of ranks
As the fighter steps forward and the other flanks
The pushing and shoving in the silent stark room
The circle decreases and a flash warps the plume
The memories jagged as they cut like a knife
As she’s hit by the boxer and fights for her life
The dry autumnal street carpets red and gold
The crunch of the leaves cushioned the blow
The flash of the memory vivid and sharp
Innocence held with such disregard
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
He fell, yet held to denial
She'd gone several seasons to send him to hell
Cold iron rod was insufficient to smash him
She saw and stretched for the sledge
His face of caramel caved, dwindled he like a drunk
Rage of storm flung him fast amidst junk.
Astronomical lift cushioned her
Keen students returned respect, while she waged war
For the culprit, that aged false balm intent to win -
One would glean, Neil deGrasse Tyson discerned her dreams
He knew folk art, martial art, art of other sort
His gift lingered long like caution to one
For he stood as master of space she graced
She who observed in awe his wit, felt aroused.
Then and there, she feared no more the devil's lure
Weapons herculean lay wait
She pounced and pound, his faint voice drowned.
She lunged, sledgehammered away his head
Specialists would haul and burn remains,
joy and pain, touch of rain, prelude to spring renewal.
*
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.