Drafty Poems | Examples

Love, From Santa's Girl

What the Dickens! Santa ain't wearing knickers 
well his pants got caught inside the chimney 
now here's the kicker...
Little Joe woke up in the middle of the night 
and gave Santa such a jolly fright 
now here's the kicker...
It was drafty there wasn't any gas nor heat 
Mrs. Chump snored upstairs like dead meat 
now here's the kicker... 
Mr. C was 5 feet tall and wasn't a Clause at all 
he didn't know how to rob Peter to pay Paul 
now here's the kicker...
The real Ms. C owned a solar panel, Oh what fun 
gave it to Ming Ming who flew like a Son Of A Gun!   
now here's the kicker... Eh !   
He burned Santa's pants then laughed, giggled, scoffed   
but as Santa  danced around the sun poured in the loft  
now here's the real kicker...
Christmas was a blast now little Joe C could finally be, 
toasty as a glow worm in a house built for three. 

Merry Christmas Everyone !  
Love, 
From Santa's Girl  :)

Fire

Leaves now crimson red
Faded yellow and brown 
In the darkness coals 
Flicker like jewels on a crown
Sipping wine and cuddled up
I settle in for sleep
Dogs dozing cats as well 
Birds nodding without a peep 
Candle flicks to and fro
Drafty house propels its own 
Bewitching shadows dancing
Ceremoniously on the wall
I fear conjured beasts
No sleep at all

Butterflies

I knew a girl
once who had
a clothesline that ran
across her kitchen.
When she would water
her houseplants,
she could never remember
how much
water each one needed
to maintain a healthy
green glow.
She said, “I’d rather them
leak than go
thirsty.”
She placed neatly folded paper
towels beneath
each young plant.
An hour after
each over-watering
she would
pick up the paper
towels, whispering
sweet words of encouragement
to each plant.
She would then stand
on a box of cat litter,
hanging each paper towel
up to dry 
in the yellow, electric light
I loved her once.
The way those towels
hung, limp, shifting
in the breeze 
of drafty doors 
reminded me
of butterflies.

Night Shift At Arkham

Arkham
Is not for me
I wish I were writing
But instead I’ve got guard duty
With serial killers and maniacs
Screaming, howling, crying
Joker, Two-Face
Riddler
Why does The Bat
Let these guys stay alive?
But I guess Arkham might be worse
With its leaky pipes and drafty windows
Gruel for every single person
(So I pack my own lunch)
Anyone who 
Sees this:
We’re hiring
No wonder the villains
Keep on escaping this prison
We can’t take on more supervillains here
Batman! Send us more employees
If you want the bad guys
To stay put here
Alas,
Time to make rounds
In this cold and dank place
I don’t get paid enough for this
But at least they match my 401k
 Only up  to a percentage...
But I do get dental!
Uh-oh…Joker’s
Laughing

Escape From Prison

Prisoner mortally confined,
plotting your escape like Papillon,
conceiving freedom like a zoo animal.
Then dreaming on, 
you meet a flying child in all your mirrors.
Nearly weightless, pulled in every gale,
lifted like a kite,  
catapulted high over every trail.
Then dreaming on,
you are the drafty power of your path,
the easy elevation of your flight.
This embedded skill is never forgotten.
Deep within the hippocampus,
your winged Poseidon,
the flying child in all your mirrors.
Then dreaming on,
soaked in sleep, reverie’s seahorse.
Flying child,
free of worldly constraints,
free of torment and angst,
free in oceans and skies,
your tourist anima continues vaulting.
But then, eyes open in the dim grimness,
You remember this cell,
these sad limits of the corporeal.
Yet, how is it that your dreams know more?
Prisoner mortally confined.

Accepted for Publication: The Opiate Journal, spring 2023

I Long For a Warm June Day

I long to return to a warm June day,
Feeling the glow of sun on my face,
Watching clouds across the sky race.

I don’t know why I feel this way
But I’ve always loved the summer
For me, cold weather is a bummer.

Seems warmth holds my arthritis at bay
Less ailments, less pain, feeling good --
Of course, like a man of my age should.

Of all the months, June is my mainstay
Watching newborn life come to bloom
No more a prisoner in a drafty room.

I come alive in the beauty of after-May
Feel the sun on my face at high noon,
Actually, it cannot come too soon.

I long to return to a warm June day
I don’t know why I feel this way,
Seems warmth holds my arthritis at bay
Of all the months June is my mainstay,
I come alive in the beauty of after-May!

Written September 28, 2022
[a Constanza, a poetry form invented
by the late Connie Marcum-Wong]

Ship's Metal Stairs

Living in a house very old,  
it was always drafty and cold.  
Metal stairs to the basement lead,  
from an old pirate's ship they said.  
Was this story really told?  


On the ship many were sick~dead,  
did they all walk the plank in red.  
Those metal steps brought real fear,  
a bottomless pit was so near.  
Dark and dusty I must now head.  


The washer~dryer were in here,  
clean clothes I needed to appear.  
I headed for the metal stairs,  
a voice was calling in the airs.  
Where are you now going my dear?   

 

Date Written:6/9/2022  
HowManySyllables.com and RhymeZone

Last Memory

Life's echoes of long ago
linger within cavern walls.
To remain hidden far below,
along cold, drafty halls.

Buried deep within body and soul,
they have been unable to find.
The door leading to their goal,
the recesses of my mind.

Sadness flows throughout,
almost a familiar friend.
Becoming what I am about,
a heart, unable to mend.

My mind is aware,
of the logic I hold on to.
At times, too weary to care,
at a loss, for what to do.

I danced to the music of life's song.
It's melody intoxicated me.
The music died, I could no longer dance along.
Echoes remain, vying for that last memory.

This Old Building

___ ~~ ___

home for me is in an
old building
that is quite drafty 
with floors crooked
but it has huge rooms
that one seldom gets these days
oh, all the windows stick
but have flower window boxes
and there are some strange creaks
and groans in the quiet of night
still, I love my apartment
in this old building
for it is full of character
and I call it home

______________________
March 25, 2021


Poetry/Verse/this old building
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1341-547-25
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France 

Submitted to the Standard contest, All Yours (Mar 26)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/26/2021

Soul Winter-

Dismal dark dreary purposed poised
Winters breeze rain icy snow blows
Doused dusting dead driven snows

Bitter colds biting drafty bleaks
Intensifying ice- kissed cheeks
Body armored flannel-fleece

So Winters animated life
Frozen senses desires light
Benign appeased nature's wife

In the Northern Hemisphere
Make sure you shiver make sure you go" blurr"
Coldest season of the year


For Contest Attention: To Detail Poetry Contest
Sponsored by:  Rob Levasseur

Winter Baby, Blues

Winter Baby, Blues

Oh baby you left your boots in Asheville where you 
didn’t even get to hike the Blue Ridges before the new 
year turned over hittin the drafty door just Iike
 
all the resolutions that come  the same every January 
for the frigid air that has to last two weeks straight 
or the fleas won’t die off so let the wind’s chilling throes

of cold tear your eyes winking at sparkling on all 
the icicles hanging from the house with some becoming 
quite massive as each noon’s sun allowed

a thawed drop or two to roll down though never drop 
to the earth just as the angels keep our dreams from 
being crushed under the mounds of drifting 

snow so don’t groan baby because you left your 
puffer coat at the airport when you ran to get on the plane 
where your mittens now remain under your

seat waiting to warm another’s fingers so 
then let me wrap  your scarf all around you with our plans
for hot cocoa and quilts to stop sweet baby winter’s blues

Change of Season

CHANGE OF SEASON

Today brings about a new season
A lingering darkness awaiting the 
Sprout of sunrise in an eastern sky
Winds shifting, a drafty Canadian air
Cool and prickly on the skin
Clouds dense and low-hanging as though
Stuck in the throat of heaven 
Like a ball of cotton
Leaves changing to rust, gold, and bronze
Curling into themselves, dropping from limbs 
Like fluttering origami kites
A sudden eruption of autumn shades,
Blooms of mum and aster
Like tiny bold-colored umbrellas 
Snapped abruptly open
Such a phenomenal change of scenery, 
A cheerful death, bound to bring 
Yet another spring awakening.

Delicate Strands of Sound

Flanked by violets and similes
   in a drafty den she pens
away fleet hours, pensive, concocting
   exotic brews of rarest essence

and scents, honey-tipped phrases
   in secret rhythmical chants  
known only to denizens of her
   innermost sanctum, where she,

perches, chin in hand, arranging
   delicate strands of sound, eliciting
murmurs from those gathered, who lionize her
   though she remains as the dust underfoot

mister naffy

once this old guy robert naffy

wore clothing made of bright taffy

so whenever it rained

confectioners complained

his suits though tasty were drafty.

A Gift of Love

I bought my love a white chocolate rose
Filled with honey and strawberry cream
I placed it in the car to get a card
It melted in a chocolate stream

I bought a plant of beautiful bloom
Pink and red and white
But placed it in the hallway
Too drafty and so it died

I bought my love a golden heart
With citrine and sapphires 
A splendid work of art
Glittering strung with wires

But when I placed it on his neck
The chain was much too small
The wire snapped the catch broke
And the stones and heart did fall

And now I simply laughed and cried
And hugged my love so dear
Too late to get another gift
I hugged and loved him as I shed a tear.

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