Living Space Poems | Examples

A home for now

Appearances

in time

seem as living space

a home for now

a place which allows

the morning paper

with coffee and

planning a day~

a story unfolding

with expectation and

maybe emptiness~

perhaps suggesting

bondage as freedom~~

Stardust Symphony

Written July 05, 2025

              *************

I am anchored when I am a garnet,
The mineral topaz when I shine.
A midnight fantasy of moonstone,
This precious gem's spirit is mine.
 
Emerald ideas are proliferating,
Within the gardens of my brain.
As opalescent moods still fluctuate,
With indeterminate strain.
 
I illuminate, akin to a glass prism,
When elation continues to rise.
A Sapphire flame symbolizes justice,
Increasingly irritates my eyes.
 
When shadows start to thicken,
I don the obsidian stones' grace.
And allow the illumination of jasper,
Restore equilibrium in my living space.

Each diamond carries a whisper,
A truth that I have been able to flow—
This even caused fractures in the facets.
Still catching the dawn glow. 

I evolved from stardust,
With spiral galaxies to approve.
Should you perceive that sparkle—
You are stardust, companion, and groove.

Hedged In

They are under the hedge, the elderly,
the silver whiskered. Threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble,
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.

Her apartment is hedged in.
Her telephone is a blank land line.
The television is deaf.

A groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that stout old man rolling gait of his.

She forages in her living space,
from a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
Her hands hang soft and blue.
Pills pend under a bedroom lamp.

The hedged in
listen to the small, contained movements
of their elder days.
They will abide here
knitting the hours together
until the long forgetting.

Where Is Human Dignity?

Where is human dignity?

Where is the border? Lamb white cloaks??!
Humans. Women and men. Personal respect
Humans with souls and personal living space

This is a natural sphere. This not psychology
The personal living place and sphere of Life
Comes from the Creation. Parts of humans 

Lamb white cloaks
Lamb white cloaks
False science owners
Guilties, sinners!
Lambs with wolf souls!
Why? Why? Answer!
Why do you destroy
The Almighty God’s Laws?

Please respect
My sphere

Jesus was right
Here is the dark age

Future or Death?

Future or Death

Ununderstable the powers of our world
This planet full of innovations and solutions
to make bombs, guns, super killer technologies,
but there are eight billion people on this planet
wants to live somewhere. Somewhere…
Soon nine, ten, eleven… billions of lives.
Here is no space, but empty the Space
Planets, solar systems, galaxies, all the Universe
Make living space by murdering our neighbors? 
Disgusting will, racism, fascism, evilest mind.
We have super scientists, science to find the way
to the new living spaces, and create more technical
death by guns, missiles, and hyperguns.
The life is our interest, together we can find the way
out from this loved small planet, its life is also limited
With our technologies and minds, we can find
the new living spaces for our human kinds
Together

Overrated virtues of cleaning

Organ-ize it
like some sort of sick 
symphony 
I suppose
though the latter half of my A&P 
studies
suggest otherwise
working together in harmony
a kind of homeostasis, (it makes me
shudder to think of any living space being like that)
organ...ized
like fossilized something that sets out a course to 
take place over eons of time 
that no one small 
frail human could ever understand
much less scratch with tiny hands
at the surface of..
it just feels so cold, so
desolate, 
but despite all this languid poetry
and verse 
the room still has to get cleaned

Light

As he entered the room he pushed the oak door firmly against the wall trapping the shadows in a makeshift Tobelerone his hands frantic on the light switch 
Even during the hottest summers he declined the comfort of the shade of towering trees.
Each room in his home had rows of light bulbs
Candles flickered in every corner
Neon tubes hummed in dazzling arrays
The constant thrum of individual generators for each living space.
At night thick slats of iron covered every window
opening only with the touch of sunlight yawn
Why do I whisper hello in my empty spaces he pondered his inner voice answering you know why
He shivered as a draught of unknown origins invited the candles to sway in unison

A Long Goodbye

You fixed Mongolian stew
on a two ring Russian-made burner.

It was understood,
that we would not be drinking
salted milk tea
in Ulan Bator anytime soon.

I would be moving on,
you would be moving into
this one room, bed-less apartment.

Kazakh embroidery,
added an exotic ambience.
to the threadbare living-space.

Later we laid down on goatskins,
imagined that this cold room
was a warm yurt.

Our bodies were a perfect fit,
for an imperfect love.

We kept ourselves warm
beneath thick woolen Deel's,
which we both knew
were the national costume,
of the desperately lost.

Pushing the Button

Practice the pause. When in doubt, pause. When angry, pause. When tired, pause. When stressed, pause. And when you pause, pray.” —Toby Mac

~~~~~~~~

A movie runs on.

In a high tower
a facsimile of your open eyes
burns through a celluloid strip of film.

A pinpoint of heat
made a hole -
It burned through perception.

A sentient hand reaches out
from mindfulness,

it punches a large button
set at the back of a seat
in the back row
of a movie theater.

The running-on - stops.

You sit back a spell,
re-light a lamp
you had kicked over
in your hurry to keep ahead.

A spool of cooling reality
unwinds,
forming a jumbled heap
on a cutting room floor.

Once again you recall,
that paused living-space,
that prayer room
you could have entered
at anytime.

Lampshades of Beauty

Lampshades of beauty come in every shade 
everyone should have one in their home 
for when the moon refuses to cascade 
inside your darkened room, then you alone
can light your inner world with glow and shine;

Bruise of night, ecchymosis of the soul 
each fearful child of God should have their own  
for when the stars refuse to spark, extol 
within your living space, then you alone 
can light your inner world with glow and shine;

Expensive trinkets I don't need my friend  
for dearer still is inner light of heart  
a lampshade is a blessing, a godsend
inside a darkened room, yes you alone 
can light your inner world and make it shine.

Drumfire Roars To Silence

A dense sky-rubble
trundled and spilled above the rooftops
a runaway thunder ground along unseen tracks,
a near salvo rocking mind-cradles,
then a muted detonation over a far off
storm bruised landscape.

The tumult cracked and sizzled-
leaden were the rayless shades.

I returned home in the nick of
a dispersing moment.

The house seemed crouched,
ceilings low and cowering;
a living-space quashed by a heavy hand
rooms sheltering from the weight of imminent
upheaval.

I paused for the searing glare of lightning
yet a deepening gloom
sparked no ignition nor flash;
only a pressing portent of menace.

Then as rapid as the booming
onslaught arrived
the heavens broke open,
gravity expelled a lighter breath
to rise ballooning into an airy light.

All who huddled beneath that cacophony
sighed now in shamed relief
a prayer unspoken upon their lips.

I did not leave my dwelling that day
until my timid tabby cat
bravely led the way.

Visiting

In the tall many-eyed hospital
I am shrunken into a small pocket of isolation
waiting for a man to die or 
the replanting of a once mislaid miracle.

I'm ducking beneath time and place waiting for something
I dare not name yet.

A stranger walks by,
he looks at me as if I am known to him
I want to tell him I hardly know myself anymore
but now his eyes are glazing over with indifference.

I’ve been here before,
a little further down this corridor
as a person blanked to off-white for the ease of finding;
a fearless medical concern, laid-out,
detailed, prepped for the probing,
one wrist banded just in case the unforeseen
grew too large to be ignored.

Today I am only a figure on a bench
visiting, hoping for news of death postponed
trying to recall one iota of the fear I once left here
as I, bundled against a heartless wind
was delivered back into a living space,
a place my friend may not find anymore.

Two Thousand and Twenty Two

Four Billion years or thereabouts
Earth has orbited its appointed place
Slowly and surely developing into
A safe and hospitable living space 

What a strange year this has been
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Two
You seem to have bern so long passing
And I’m so glad to see the back of you.
A year of invasion and Warfare
Of bullies flexing their might
Seeming secure in their belief
That might alone is right.

A year of political spectres
Of crooks, spivs and ghouls
Carelessly showing to the world we
Are lead by blatant self seeking fools.
The greedy and avaricious seem
To want, and take, more and more
Leaving even less for the peasants
To fight and grub for off the floor.

The rich man in his castle still,
Security light and guard at his gate,
More and more decrying the excesses
Of the battered remnant Welfare State.
So goodbye twenty twenty two 
Heaven only knows what we’ll see,
More of the same and worse I think, when  
They usher in year Twenty Twenty Three.

Four thousand years give a century or two 
That’s just about as long as it’s taken
For man to abuse Earth’s delicate balance 
And leave it stunned and badly shaken

Rooms

Ocher and quince wads
pack gaps in particleboard walls.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is smeared by nicotine
When it rains, a paper-Mache atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.

The window-sill slants, he dares not lean out.
He listens to street fights; imagines gore
seeping into inky basement wells.

Saturday nights bleed into Sunday.  Sometime
amid the gray hours he decides to leave,
to wander vomit blitzed alleys
to search a doorstep and steal a Sunday paper,
then he returns to the grimy room
to read of better places
where better crimes get clean away.

He has a girlfriend, one he sees only once a week,
they sit on the narrow bed reading the news.
She tells him that her apartment has thin walls,
that at night strangers scratch upon them
as if writing to her.

Finally He lands a job in a hotel as a night porter.
His allotted room is pure white and sterile,
more a cell than a living space.
If he puts the light on, all that white hurts his eyes,
in time he gets used to it.  His mind slowly
sheds layers of brick-dust and smudged print.

Rainsticks and Drums Native Chants and Pagan Dreams

Amazon mist  and rainy mornings green as the day God made them 
dropping from a moist sky full of even grays and sheltering light 
peaceful music playing from the spheres of a dense forest dream 
we are little humans in a big big giant cave,  ....    the rain 

Pitter patter drops on thirsty tree in a world that is evened once again 
sheets of rain fall from my window and I click click click and glean 
a slow memory of old, photographs of mom and dad inside the garden 
we were small and happily drinking in the scene  ....          the rain 

Sentinel watches from soldiering evergreens I lived there before 
the white washed walls of peace and the age old chanterelle danced  
as the raindrops settle in my soul, I compose a poem about downpour   
Petrichor scents permeate my living space as I listen to ...        the rain 

Rainsticks and drums Native chants and Pagan dreams of old I remember 
Lady Gianne and her healing chants, how she lifted her face to the winds
"Heal me now and make me whole" * " Bring peace and love forevermore"
As nature creates pathways to equity, the rain loves US, ....   the rain

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