Long Creaks Poems
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The crease in the bedspread, the fold in our pillows,
the bends in the doormat’s bristles, the off-angle shoe by the stairs.
The lip stain around a wine glass
and toothbrush borrowed, still damp.
Your tissue, scrunched, unfolds gently in
the bin like a seed amongst pebbles.
It’s your cough in the air,
your hair in the shower.
You left an indentation,
a mould and mark of you
with handprints that cover the walls.
You’re in that paint and part of this plaster.
A door creaks and you’re the hinge.
An envelope drops through your mouth.
Your skin is in the dust floating,
awakened by a closing curtain.
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.
~~~~
edit
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the spectral
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
As I sit upon these old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards, that shake with every wind
These creaks and groans, the flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand
I have come to some conclusion,,,
I've come to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat, the shape, the size,
the warps, the cracks, ...each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ... I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs. I have a few
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache. too.
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two,... sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.
Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
_____________________________________________________________
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF4GCLqf9_o
My life is good but so ordinarily boring
I feel the urge to maybe start exploring
I am getting old, my body’s fat storing
Time for bed again to hear hubby’s snoring
I wake up, or maybe I am in a dream
My body feels different, younger, more lean
My hair is very long, and flowing, it gleams
My nails are long and red and very extreme
I am in an unfamiliar room in four poster canopy bed
I look up at a satin canopy above, colored blood red
The door creaks and opens, I am fearful with dread
I then see the most beautiful man, he’s drop dead
He comes to the bed and stares at me with piercing blue eyes
I know I should run but am overtaken in a trance, mesmerized
Then he comes closer, his lips brush mine, I kiss him, it’s unwise
But I am so elated my body starts to respond to my surprise
I then feel his tongue on my neck, as he starts to playfully bite
I feel my blood trickle down my neck but I can’t put up a fight
Instead I can’t move and my sense are ecstatic with delight
Is this really happening to me, is this a dream, will I be alright?
Then the room starts to spin, as I hear loud rain pouring down
I wake to hear familiar sounds, like snoring, start to surround
My eyes now open, my husband is next to me, sleeping sound
I start to relax until I see large drops of blood on my night gown
10/15/18
'The Millwheel wouldn't turn until the Spring'. It was a strong wood-frame structure originally designed for a very special purpose. The Gristmill was a mill for grinding grain, and before we ever considered dancing on its floor, we kids spent lots of time jumping and playing in the big bin of corn and working in the mill grinding corn into cornmeal. Many kids knew what it meant and felt like playing in the hay, but we had more fun playing in the corn. I'm not saying it was safe, but safe isn't always on one's mind when you're playing and having fun. Those were the 'Good Old Days' when although we bought some things from the local store, mom and dad raised and grew most of the food we ate, some of which we 'played with and played in' before we ate it.
'Whispers ran through the town from door to door' about kids burying themselves in corn and pretending to be working, but in the case of 'The Gristmill', there was little that we understood as work. I tell you, we had more fun in 'the Gristmill than a kid had any right to. During the summer the weather was mean and dry. When it was dry like that we worked our little buns off in the cotton fields sweating and chopping cotton. Child Labor Laws? Are you kidding me? Back then, we hated work and I think it's true to that too much child labor can take the kid out of the kid. Yes, we knew that we were greatly loved by our parents but it included 'the working variety'.
The winters brought rest and ' Ice melts, revealing secrets- wheel creaks'. A bit of a wintery feel, but we've had no rain here for days :) The kids can't wait for The Millwheel of spring.
06272018PoetrySoupContest, 'One, Nine, Sixteen v3.0', Viv Wigley
CITADEL AND CONSTELLATIONS
The green leaves in rugged moans;
The tall bushes in rumbling groans;
The roofs train creaks-- their fugue
blow cobwebs hugging branches below,
such are precursors inviting darkness lair
for stormy clouds before crowd the days.
Yellow horizon seem unreachable honey
as in my life's ocean, balloon billows I bear.
I-- surged in every swell to skirt yet still
lashing waves dashed pushing me sometimes to despair.
Again, cataclysm walk unheralded casting loose
my arms lift upon the glimmer of silver lining from afar
somber shadows enshrouded me in a mist of struggles.
Ounce of strength I have, I try to juggle and juggle
yet, curses fell from hearts and lips parched of love.
All these came, one and all --
the flowing light has flickered flash and gone
but beyond all these you stood -- my sentinel...
You hushed the bad constellations hanging 'round my world
like a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to his home.
Yes! You are my beacon, a promontory amidst
cyclic onslaught brambles and chameleons,
a rock to cling in the wind's creeping fury,
Staunch and firm, my ñhero fighting the torrential
cascade of tirades and reproaches: MY CITADEL. . .
_____________________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name Your Favourite Old Poem #2
++Placed 2nd++
***Sponsor Justin Bordner
Contest Name How You Make The Stars Hush
++Placed2nd++
©O.E. Guillermo
06:37 pm, February 24, 2015
Many a place that time leaves behind
Hold memories that never rust
Like the now broken swing where skyward you'd climb
It now creaks as it sways in a windy gust
The old wooden house where you once lived
Held memories of laughter and fun
With beauty from nature derived
Playing where the rivers run
The rustling leaves of the old oak tree
is remembered by those who explored its branches
Now it plays a sentimental melody
As recollections flow without stanches
Impressions may come and go
But in some forgotten corridor of the mind
An image will suddenly show
"By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find"
The door to the bookstore creaks complaining
Books for new and old customers
a small bookstore since 1937
I get symptoms of claustrophobia,
mouse droppings and dust
but, definitely has its charm
Then the smell comes and slaps me in the nose
Mothballs, a strange sweet air
The books are not old, they are vintage
The owner is about 80 years,
an apathetic man with glasses
Little by little, the room slowly fills up
Some buddies with 4-wheel walker
overly tight braces and corduroy trousers
When they nod their heads
it even flies dust out of their hair
They should not buy books,
but have a little coffee break
in the bookstore's back room
10/03/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
GRANDPA’S CHAIR
One day as we visited Grandpa and saw him sitting there
we thought it was probably the right time to buy him a new chair.
He’s sat in that one forever…when he moves around…it creaks
the cushions are uneven…and one arm rest is weak.
The stitching barely holds together…not much if it remains
and where Grandpa loves to lay his head…is permanently stained.
It’s time for a new one, we all thought, and we were so excited
knowing Grandpa was going to love it…knowing he would be delighted.
But it didn’t go quite as we expected…I guess our thinking was a little out of whack
because when he presented it to Grandpa…he said, “Thanks…but take it back.”
Then Grandpa smiled at the lot of us…and after letting out a sigh
sat back in his old chair and explained his reasons why.
This is the chair I was sitting in when you all first came to visit me.
This is where I held each one of you…where I bounced you on my knee.
This is where we watched TV together…where I put you on my lap
where after a day of playing whatever game you wanted…we’d sit down and take a nap.
This is where I’ve sat each Christmas watching the magic taking place
From here I’ve watched you all grow up…with a smile on my face
From here I’ve smiled at your grandma…and wondered how she found a way
as we have both grown older…to look more beautiful every day…
Grandpa went on for a long time…(as Grandpa often would)
and well before he finished…we all understood.
So the next day we sat his new chair by the road with gentleness and care…
FREE, the note read,
with one condition…
it must become a Grandpa chair.