Long Climbing the walls Poems
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Thanksgiving cats get into the pumpkin pie.
They drink down bourbon, saying “here’s mud in your eye!”
We see them arrive with a thump, a clap, a thud and a sigh.
They will put their tails all over every allergic-to-cat-guy.
They are climbing the walls now, riding the tree to the floor.
Grandma Maizey is angry, she counts them, they’re four.
Get rid of those mangy beasts, she says, irritated with them.
One is patting down her tummy, another is riding her hem.
Where did all these cats come from? Uncle Bill yells.
They are making all kinds of noise, ringing neck bells.
Two more arrive, wearing top hats, carrying red canes.
It is all we can do to not sing “cats” songs, with their refrains
it clutches me
a soft murmur at first
then a persistent hum
within the ears
a need to carve
to create into being
what doesn't yet exist
a feverish urge
an obdurate obsession
to shape unseen silhouettes
beyond the generic shine
my hands jerk
even in sleep
imagining brushstrokes
that paint with clay
with thoughts
like tangled vines
climbing the walls of my mind
seeking in the sky
a long-lingering lantern
lighting my being
with the fire of inspiration
the world outside fades
its edges blurred
its pressing voices
drowned by this passion
a song of creation
a siren's call
promising solace
a momentary peace
as this obsession
is obdurate
does not truly fade
it endures as a coiled spring
for the next clue
the next irresistible impulse
to build, to write, to paint
to sculpt the air
into something tangible
something that breathes
a hunger that can`t be sated
a thirst that can`t be quenched
caught in the web
of this obdurate obsession
I engage myself
to the toil of creating
irrespective of price to pay
for in the act of carving
I feel most alive
being myself
even as I am consumed
this unyielding urge
this burning flame
shapes me to who I am
as I try to carve for the world
whether or not it greets
the piece of art
the string of words
with lenient eyes
or considerate ears
across time and space.
Is it over, is it really now over,
Are we just dreaming or simply misled,
Can we resume the rest of our lives
Outside these four walls and the shade of our bed.
Can we now fill our lungs with fresh air
Breathing no longer through layers of cloth,
Or must we endure that little while longer
Protected indoors, cocooned like a moth.
Exhausted from watching show after show,
Tidying closets, climbing the walls,
Snacking in boredom, growing in girth,
Constantly texting, washing our smalls.
Hair growing longer, nails more like claws,
Roots ever greyer, solutions too few,
Pampered and spoiled, lost in a haze
Reliant on others, but whoever knew.
So tell us it's over, we pray and beseech,
Bring back the life we knew and adore,
Life's little pleasures all gone in a flash,
Staying cooped up is now such a chore.
(A lone voice whispers)
There's a hidden secret room I go to
In my cathedral of dreams
Whenever I sleep
Where a white candle burns
In The Great In-Between
As Yesterday lives wild
Fed on memories and crawl the broken walls
While favourite ones stand up tall
And in amongst the grey clutches of Yesterday
There in the middle
Amongst the cobwebs and ivy
The weeds and bits of creeping moss
Is my old shrine
To all I've once lost
A long time ago
As white as snow
But now grey
It shines and gleams
As Yesterday
Crawls up the walls
Like a banshee
Wearing a black shawl
In its centre
Made of now dull silver
On its table
Is a black and white picture left by Yesterday
For me to remember
My only love
Lost in December
And as I pause
And Yesterday
Feeding on memories
Stop's climbing the walls
I hear her sweet husky voice over the top of my beating heart
It breaches the weed filled nooks and crannies
Cools my fast flowing bloodstream
Then in that moment climbing through the atoms of that sparse air
Comes her perfume drifting
From somewhere
A much loved fragrance from the past
Filled with sweet moments as I remember and prayed would last
Then Yesterday moves
And the scent is gone
The voice disappears
And in that room of no living creature
Where I sometimes appear
To remember
Yesterday's memories
Which I hold dear
That white candle burns
Brighter each year
On the 28 of December
When I return to remember
My beloved Lucinda
Who I lost
One fatal day in winter
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
We should only eat six sprouts at Christmas
Deem the council who are in Leicestershire
Its no joke, it’s a serious message at Xmas
To reduce waste and not make it higher
We must cut back on crisp pigs in blankets
And should only have three stuffing balls
Also cut back on spuds and fluffy Yorkshire puds
Gee I’m going to be climbing the walls!
I love to eat sprouts at my Christmas dinner
There will be NO sprout restriction for me
I’m rebelling; you may call me a sinner
There'll be piles of sprouts when I eat tea
Yes I’m going to load up my plate
Those officials can just go to hell
I’ll eat sprout after sprout after spout
And then let out a disgusting smell
The council’s intentions are honourable
Of that there are no doubts
But Leicester County Council
Keep your mitts off my Brussel sprouts!
12/21/17
“Cream Pie”.
We never took a chance,
We wouldn’t make the time.
And I just didn’t care if you were mine?
No now you’re here,
and now I'm there.
You took his love, and his name,
then you married him, to get out of the rain.
And I just don’t care, is there something wrong?
With me?
You’re with him now,
but you can’t say, why?
and he dirties up, the floor,
smearing greasy fingers on decaffeinated walls
and down the hall, the road is overgrown,
all your butterflies have died.
Your river of love, has run dry,
I never said hello,
You never said… goodbye.
And we danced through the
And we danced through a dream.
I've lost all your letters.
I'm staring at the calendar on the door?
Cheap wine burns holes in my memories.
Climbing the walls with my fingernails.
But I just keep falling down,
again, and again, blood smears,
no tears on the ceiling…
I feel your burning embers,
A storm in the distance.
I don’t know what to say as, I walk through the sunset,
the darkness into the rain, again.
When the raging river, runs free,
and the wildfires have died,
you'll have no love,
and you'll have no pride,
Wake me up from this dream,
Only then will I eat… your cream pie….
in the rain.
I wanna eat your cream pie,
in the rain.
Written for Diane S Tar??.
Its also written about you..
(c) London F. Buss
I love you my child
You were born to be wild
You popped your balloon
Then quickly smiled.
Your very first word was ball
You pointed to every circle you saw
Ball, ball, ball, ball
on the wall, down the hall
The only thing you said at all
Then it was tractor trailers and trucks
Bullets, guns and four point bucks
You were climbing the walls as I went nuts
A quick little kid, leaving trails of dust
You were quick to walk and quick to talk
You quickly mastered what was taught
You were quick to do things on your own
It should be no surprise, how quick you've grown
But I miss the days when you were small
Saying uh oh when you would fall
Tripping on my heels, down the hall
Every moment shared, I miss it all
'Twas the night before Christmas, I’d forgotten the sprouts
So I sent out a plea to the local boy scouts
I’d remembered the crackers, the turkey and ham
but my guests would expect sprouts, so I was in a jam
The scout leader admitted that I was in a pickle
and he said my family were all somewhat fickle
I said Uncle Bert just adored eating brussels
then he’d fart for days with his lax sphincter muscles
The scout leader had a plan, it is so well thought out
He'd call each scout’s mother to donate just one sprout
Every scout hurries round with one sprout in their hands
soon I have plenty of veg to sate my guest’s demands
On Christmas Day the relations ring my door bell
Pat barges into my kitchen; she makes my life hell
At one time she cooked meals for guys in the Navy
So she has to check if there are lumps in MY gravy
On the stroke of one o’clock I dish up the food
Uncle Bert belches loudly, that man is so rude
They devour all the turkey and round stuffing balls
By the end of the main course I’m climbing the walls!
They don’t offer to help, so I fetch the dessert
Uncle Bert drips brandy butter all over his shirt
Then they guzzle the cheese and finish the wine
Bert then farts profusely, he’s a disgusting swine
Then we sit round the TV to listen to the Queen
Bert’s eaten too much, his face has turned green
Pat gives me a present, of a hand knitted jumper
It’s three sizes too big, I just want to thump her
They’ve descended on me these last fifteen years
I ask if they’ll reciprocate, my words fall on deaf ears
They never say thank you, they drink all my booze
Next year they can whistle, I’m booking a cruise!
Being pulled under.
Like a lily pad going ‘boop.’
Bobbing around, then nothing.
No amount of clearing my mind will undo it.
A spider whisper.
He likes me.
Prickling like his legs.
As if I’m in a dome.
Pulled under.
There are other people who have the slobbering feeling under their hair.
Faded out.
Like a pinecone with its edges shaved.
Fingers focusing.
With gripping finger pads that do nothing.
And the kitchen is always a mess of weird things.
Bugs and things.
My edges shaved down and caved in a little.
Grappling under the ice, but there’s no water, just feet of ice.
Someone else used to live here.
He was like a centipede to me.
Everyone is like a centipede to me.
Climbing the walls.
So am I.
Always around in the basement.
Depression.
Is when you are a spider, centipede, lily pad, or pinecone.
And could get crushed any moment.
But you don’t.