Lodgings Poems | Examples

The Grand Town of Macroom

Along the Muskerry Light Railway
One can watch the flowers bloom
It will not be much longer now
’Til the old town of Macroom

Arriving at the station
Collecting bags from overhead
To depart I am too keen
After all it is just not
The train letting off steam

The cattle mart’s in action
I better not be late
As a deal on a good Dexter cow
In the next lot I await

A good time to grab the paper
And some salted butter too
The Urban District Council is convening
I wonder what they’ll do

Sods of turf are being loaded
On a cart they’ll set their course
Up the dirt road to Clondrohid
The little donkey’s tour-de-force

I ask for the donkey’s name
“Father Peadar,” I am told
“A good writer he must be,” I said
A decision rather bold

To my lodgings, I head forth
Owned by a local businessman
No need to pay ‘till signing out
That sounds like a plan

Mind

Mind; that nebulous cloud,
is not what we suppose it to be.
It is not between our ears or eyes,
that is merely a rented room.
Its lodgings are everywhere.

Mind may reside in a starry hotel
circling a solar plexus,
but even that place 
is only a transitory tent.

Mind is not gray brain-matter,
not a constant twitching of neurons
rooted to a branching spinal cord.

When Mind leaves its borrowed homes
it overwhelms any thought of size or shape,
just as the notion
of a man-made image of God
comically underwhelms.

The keeper of this drunken tavern of Mind
serves love in thimblefuls
but each one is deep enough
for any brain to drown within.

Temporary Lodgings

Incineration; it is his living wish.
The urn will be a plain oblong box,
        He will be boxed.

The wooden package will be sent
as only a temporary accommodation,
    not a place of rest or peace,
but something to be kept until poured.

This pouring will be an on-going
one taken up by a river
                  for carrying.

The current will winnow and permeate
            sift and sieve,
fish will be his filtrate,
the river rocks a million headstones
that will grind his dust finer
until the water itself eats it.

Then the empty box will be filled
with saffron, sandalwood flakes,
and dried mothwings,
          be taken back,
back into the flames
to be a thin ascending signal
of smoke
        so insubstantial
that it will be no more than
a dissolving question
  in an un-answering 
          sky.

A wispy waymark
just light enough
to ride upon the ever breathing
            breath of the wind, and
always moving onward unseen.

Hamadryad

All within the taiga glade,
Their raiments gilt in comely shades,
The burgess shrives vagrant souls.
A garth of god for men alow.

Whereinto the roots may grow,
We wayfarers may never know,
For we waltz twixt sky and earth-
Domain of beast and realm of birds.

The elders of the greenwood lie,
On earth when once they kissed the sky,
And glowered at the rover’s romp,
Through lodgings filled with trunk and stump.

Or shrove to lonesome wretched wights,
Flying from their fearsome frights;
Seeking presence with burgesses,
Of taiga glade, the earth, the trees.

But now they lie upon the ground,
Now shod their garb, and lost their crowns,
Ne’er again will readorn, 
Unlike their kin who stand and mourn.

We pass into the land of love,
For pleasant autumn leaves above;
To revel or repent alone,
To contemplate or to atone?

A Handful of Haiku: Autumn

I
Summer has moved out
Of temporary lodgings
Fall's lease begins 

II
Harvest moon, frosty
Nights, leaves changing hues to show
Autumn's here again

Impressions From An Alien

A kaleidoscope of shapes and colors
Flash through my mind, myriads of magic,
Impressions coloring this mystical world
That is the future, another place in time
Calling to me with voices from silence,
To return from my exploration of earth's
Vast megalopolis where I am the alien,
Where I am the unidentified foreigner.

'Twas a strange place I tell you now
Where strange creatures crawled about--
Thousands of them moving in patterns
Drawn in spaces between their lodgings
Tall towers and pyramid-shaped inverted
Cones where they raise their odd spawn.


HONORABLE MENTION - FOURTH PLACE
written June 4, 2021
submitted to "Weird, Wacky, Sci-Fi" Poetry Contest
All Poetry - September 8, 2021

Elephant In the City

Every few weeks he would move
from one rented room to another.

He and his tartan suitcase
would travel one stop
on the London Underground
to find a corner shop.

Corner shops
were where elephants went
to find advertisements for lodgings.
The city had many corners.


Nowadays If you do not fit
the regulatory norms
you will be asked to report
to a rehabilitation center.
A therapy plan will be devised
or you will have to join the circus.

In those days
if you carried a tartan bag
and kept moving,
people assumed you were selling something.

People always need something,
back then they were quite specific;
they wanted mouse traps.
Now they want more powerful mice.

After a few weeks in rented rooms
the landlord would grow suspicious.
Life would become difficult.
There always has been prejudice
against the not small.

Then the elephant in the room
would pack his soft suitcase
and leave.

A Night In Somnia

I spent a night in Somnia
which put me to the test
The lodgings were luxurious
but I could find no rest

They said it was a quiet town
I fell for all their ploys
And all the stupid sheep I tried to count
made too much noise

Minutes ticking into hours
All my dreams were lost
And like a stir-fry vegetable
is how I turned and tossed

That cheap motel in Somnia
was just a tourist trap
No matter how I tried
I couldn't even take a nap

So I had a cup of coffee
waiting for the sun to rise
The night was finally over
as I rubbed my bloodshot eyes

Now here I am in Sanity
the company where I work
I'm staring at computer screens
and feeling like a jerk

Too many nights in Somnia
have made me hit a wall
Oh great! Here comes my manager
The pink slip says it all!

Morning Ride

The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'

Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age 
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.

Tough Lodgings

The rough sleepers 
keeping diaries of
near misses and 
misadventures
staying alone and alive
living on their wits
eschewing assistance 
except 
from the social and
the occasional good
Samaritan. 

Jesus plays his part,
free tea in the park
meals at the mission
seems god is fishing 
for converts,
but 
It's hard to believe 
in a better life
when you have no life
and you gave your last smoke
to someone poorer than you.

I imagine me
outside 
the British library 
reading Burns
and who's to say
We
could be that rough sleeper
you passed today
reading 
Burns
taking turns
to write in the diary.

The Desert

The desert holds a certain beauty rare.
A little rain will make the flowers grow.
For sleeping seeds that lay there dormant bare
can rise up showing wondrous colors so.
For ever changing dunes that wild wind blows
against the lodgings made of clay and stone.
Men hide in homes from screaming sirok woes,
their beasts cringe low in fright and softly moan.
A lonesome place of spikes and cactus kinds,
where rattlesnakes do seek for pry at night,
where dry and sandy gully plays and winds
a steep path going nowhere toward the right.
To stay on beaten tried path seems the way.
Another by your side if we do stray.

Obey

My heart refunding is the pay
the poet with her will, not stray
accost my Faith, but don't delay
God as my vestige meters stay!

To write it not, but think the day
goes on no fetish,  fools would play
their happy notes, then strum parlay
this serious soul does cutting say ~

Without the song, a poem is prey
the verse upon some canting may
inflict duress, I kneel to pray
it is that action ~ nearness way!

Assimilate the motions gay
my heart, still caught to lodgings grey
this youth of time, goes on, a fray 
addicting rhyme to one relay!

God's measure, I AM, answered weigh
is sacred, certain . . . . my Obey!

Wooded Cottage of Highwayman

Nestled deep in the tawny, drab woodland
Sedate cottage neither haughty nor grand
Sparse hovel of unassuming, itinerant brigand
Martial decor of detached highwayman starkly bland
The etched path sculpted by intemperate hand
No manicured garden on the scrubby strand
Briers and brambles errant straggler must withstand
Thatched clapboards stable his stallion firebrand
Unruly swine garnish acorns from scraggly wasteland
Buried deep in his cellar pilfered contraband



Per chance drifter did the terrain assay
And chose that toilsome, forsaken way
A spartan welcome hauteur did convey
No lodgings, accoutrements could sway
If for grace, mercy they did pray
Only a cold shoulder he did relay
If they tested his temperance and sued for trite parley
He reconnoitered their belongings through wordplay
If no net value they were beguiled to betray
Their worthless lives he did indignantly slay

Free Education

sometimes wonder how many dark chapters are lost between the glitter of the details,
Flowers of the most beautiful bloom lay dead while artificial wreaths are being twined,
And how much do you think a poor man will have to pay to buy the smile of a rich man,
It is a sad fact that very often human happiness feeds and thrives on human miseries.

There are men prospering in stark proportion of the lesser man working for a pittance,
Some rear a superstructure of comfort on the foundations of another mans ruined hopes,
We hear hardened tales of misery in newspapers, televisions so often it has no effect,
Soul destroying factories, profit by repetitive tasks, cutting out long learned skills.

Even in these enlightened days where higher education is available to the rich and poor,
How can some of the poorer families get money to pay for their graduate's costly upkeep,
Can they purchase uniforms, books and pay for lodgings to be near the free university,
Free education is too expensive for working classes, so now we have it, nothing's changed.

Crash

I twist and turn, I grasp and grab.
Is there any foothold?
Any crevice or jutting edge 
That my fingers may find lodgings?
The wind zips past me in cold blasts,
Sucking along what lil’ air my nostrils find.
I open my mouth to yell; …nothing.
Despite the wind’s fury and howling,
I feel perspiration break out on my face. 
That is the cold sweat of fear.
The knowledge that all that I have ever done;
The good, the bad, and the, well, not so good
 All boil down to this moment.  
The space between the top of the ledge and the bottom.
Time fades away and loses import.
My life flashes before my eyes like distorted parts of many movies,
Not the sweet memories of Christmas,
Nor the sweet smell of beans and plantains 
Wafting in from the kitchen…
No.
It’s the thought of all that I could have done,
The memories of all the things that I did wrong
And all the things I could and should have done right.
The things I did not do.
And as the bottom draws nearer, 
And the end sweeps up with that feeling of inevitability,
I feel only one taste in my mouth;
Regret.
And then …nothingness………
Thud!

• Short Lodgings Poems
• Famous Lodgings Poems
• Best Lodgings Poems
• Read Lodgings Poems
• Long Lodgings Poems
• Lodgings Quotes