Long Deadbolt Poems
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Not much about Goldilocks is really well known,
Except she liked to hang out in the woods all alone.
Of other customs and habits we have just a splintering:
She was whiney, persnickety,
And obviously skillful at breaking and entering.
No deadbolt or burglar alarm could defy her.
A common criminal, then, is how history should try her.
The three bears, that morning, had gone outside to forage
For sweet berries and nuts they could add to their porridge.
On returning, they found this young girl in their bed,
And their first misconception was that she was dead.
Since she also was human, they were somewhat afraid,
But after looking around at the mess she had made,
They debated the question of how they should treat her,
Then took a quick family vote and opted to eat her.
Now, bears are opportunistic, don't adhere to the letter,
And when it comes to cuisine, "haute's"* not necessarily better.
These three had had Muslim, a Mormon, a Christian, a Jew,
And a Tibetan monk, just to mention a few.
But they couldn't care less for religious perversity,
When it came to free food, they were all for diversity.
What they weren't quite sure of was how this one they'd render,
Or was she naturally tender because of her gender?
So heed this warning all squatters, all beakers and enterers,
Before invading the space of homeowners or renterers.
Beware lest your miscreant action finagles a sad end,
Like our heroine,
Who never dreamed, I'll be bound,
She would ever be found with three bears chowing down,
Complementing their porridge with Goldilocks and bagels.
*As in "haute cuisine" (pronounced "oat kwee-zeen"), French for "fine dining".
I built my fortress out of counting—
fourteen hundred twenty ways to say I’m safe.
The light switch: off, on, off again, again.
The stove knobs all aligned at six o’clock.
My hands know every doorknob’s texture, how
the deadbolt clicks when turned exactly twice.
I check the rearview mirror: once for cars,
and once for certainty, and once for luck.
The numbers line up clean as soldiers, march
in formation through my racing thoughts.
If I can just complete the sequence, then—
but there’s no then. There’s only one more check,
one more loop around the house at night,
one more time washing my already clean hands.
I know the math is wrong—this isn’t safety,
just arithmetic I use to build my cage.????????????????
The cabin sits against the forest wall
hidden from human site, it stands alone
isolated
in the dead of winter, the cold has a jagged edge
things crunch
twigs snap, upon a sparrow's landing
the freezing wind brushes painfully across the cabin
like an artist, whose hands are brittle with decay
forcing the branches to scrape along the upstairs window
like fingers trying to get inside.
the cabin creeks, showing its age
as it settles in, for a long winter
outside, the wind continues to show its fury
as the cabin's walls whistle eerily, to see whose listening
the clock chimes downstairs
For now....
we are not concerned about the footprints, leading to the back door
they are of no consequence at the moment
but in a few minutes, maybe less
they will be.
the cabin stands alone
hidden, isolated
in the dead of winter
no one can hear you scream
the deadbolt turns....
the floorboards offer only joist only the give the soft jawed stud in the hall
plaster molts white flecks like the chicken did last winter
the tv spits a grey electric grit
a static stuck rattling the cul de sac the deadbolt evening click
i have swept the dead from the wires the cold clot they leave in the pipes
the notice said final in red it promised a merciful eviction
in a neighborhood of taped up windows
the crabgrass a green fire where the dog used to squat wait
inside the mind a leaden bell a pendulum already swinging
the weight of crown molding and sweat
a siyn nap pops like a fuse when the heart stops
just the thermostat clicking off
the house already a frozen meat locker of blue bellies
as the soul snags on the splintered jamb by the side door
while the neighbors count the moving boxes
i kept thinking about the fridge light how long it could burn
over the fatback sweating into a cold yellow brine
the stars rock salt in a split lip
the factory a pulled socket wired to nothing bleeding soot
porch light a clotted throat of toasted wings
the smoke alarm battery dead
all that evisceration funnels us back to the kitchen
we sit in the kitchen thumbing the unpaid slips
my fingers gelid sticking to the paper
the fridge drones on borrowed power
just caught in the clock slow gears a germ in the cogs
the sink drips
the soul stays low in the wiring
behind the lath
holding on
until the breaker snaps
There are times the wind will blow a door right in your face.
Sometimes, a door is slammed by members of the human race
There are doors designed to keep some people in and others out.
Sam did not pay his rent; so he was evicted and the door was locked.
Mr. Riley rented the same apartment and was given the door keys.
Some doors have locks on their knobs and also deadbolt locks.
I use to tell my kids, "Until we get to heaven, always lock the doors".
Thieves and robbers will never enter through the doors of heaven.
I once held keys to unlock the doors of banks and other secured places.
I would make deliveries of overnight mail and quickly exit the door.
One morning a bank employee forgot his keys and asked me to let him in.
Without hesitation, I told him "No, it's against policy", and drove away.
If the door bell is in disrepair, there's no choice except to knock, knock, knock.
Sam bought a house, but didn't realize his new home came with sliding doors.
He overlooked 'the door details' in the blueprints of his new home.
So each time he went to check in on the progress of his house,
everything was fine except the doors he assumed were temporary.
He was not use to going through such doors in a private residence.
Sam learned at least one more thing about doors he had not considered.
He was aware of 'door prizes', but learned the hard way about 'door surprises'.
03292017 cj PS Contest, Doors, Richard Lamoureux
Mid-Day Break-In
Was just about noon
Normal sort a day
Told someone new
To come our way
Suspected not a thing
Blind to the more
Had a good dead-bolt
Lock'n my door
I don't sparkle much
Nothing to draw near
I ain't real fancy
So it would appear
I had nothing to fear
I try not to attract
Nobody noticed before
Besides, I had a good deadbolt
Lock'n my door
In some strange twist
You couldn't resist
You dared travel my way
Staked me out
Broke-in mid-day
Now you just hold on a sec
I say that it ain't fair
My door was secure
You, you broke into here
Didn't even care
I had nothing to impart
Just broke-in anyway
And ran off with my heart
Yes, it was you
No one else would dare
The evidence clear
Your prints left there
I said hold on, it ain't right
All those years I been fine
You had to pick a door
You had to choose mine
Was just around noon
Knew I fallen in deep
When I desired not food
Cared not for sleep
Just standing here staring
At my broken door
Lock and heart alike
Throbbing on the floor
Was a good dead-bolt
Kept me safe for years
Then you broke in mid-day
And left me in tears
What I once knew
I don't know anymore
Mid-day break-in
How'd you get in my door?
We (the missus and I) kvell for Katz TOASTER PASTRIES!
I prefer to craft a poem
for no rhyme nor reason
expressing heartfelt pleasure
to our highly refined palate
versus presenting tasty, yummy
and zesty nutritious snacks
exuberant feedback courtesy Tik Tok.
Aside from harkening from Semitic stock
me and the missus
relish those (Katz) gluten free pastries
they give us the oomph to rock
and similar to powder milk biscuits
give us strength to do what needs to be done.
Though no intention to mock
popular Pop-Tarts
(stylized as pop•tarts),
an American brand of toaster pastries
produced and distributed by Kellanova
(formerly Kellogg's) since 1964,
which consist of a sweet filling
sealed inside two layers of thin,
rectangular pastry crust.
In 2006, Mrs Katz decided
to transform the world
of gluten free snacking
for her celiac children.
Eighteen years later,
she retains firm stronghold
courtesy word of mouth watering
salivating (videlicet) Pavlovian
salutary, masterly, hardy,
deliciously crafted wholesome food
clinching dominant market share
analogous to stronghold ala deadbolt lock,
a recipe distributors attempt
to steal by hook or crook,
yet unable to break down fortified doors
after they loudly knock
on one occasion
holding the bakers on their break hostage
pointing culinary harmless
imitation edible Glock,
nevertheless drawing attention
of media camera crews that flock
for breaking shipping news
that harbor standoff
with quasi narco traffickers,
intent to rebrand and sell
Katz TOASTER PASTRIES
as mucked up poor quality dogs treats,
where special op forces
heavily guard the dock
maintaining vigilance around the clock,
to prevent goods held as contrabands
and subject pastry chefs to intense torture
forcing unsung heros
to stay awake 24/7 blindfolded,
so as not to see miscreants,
where ingredients of goodies
sniffed, sifted, and scrutinized
by sophisticated chemical analysis,
and thus I now conclude
contrived fictitious poetic scenario
to share such helpful feedback
in a little ditty composed ad hoc
can boost sales for your company.
by: matthew scott harris
Peter Pan Syndrome the most
accurate way to summarize
psychological mindset of yours truly,
particularly as a boy with brown eyes,
who did NOT holistically acclimatize
himself with peers, which insecurity
latched deadbolt draw
bridge guaranteeing Harris
parasite to cannibalize
(figuratively), sans rip
pull sieve flesh eating das guise
nanobot, while clinging with dear life
to mother's apron strings, no surprize
unavoidably, predictably, inevitably,
trauma did successfully burglarize
(more serious than Watergate)
rendering this withdrawn, small size
passive, and docile pipsqueak
human punching bag to other guys,
one puny slip shape lad's bodily statecraft
always ready to capsize
silently suffering lifetime, threatening
afflictions, harming easy target
inculcating aghast fear to socialize
compounded by stature quite undersize
additionally afflicted with minor defect
submucous cleft palate did compromise
vocalization with severe nasality
(iterated previously other poems), where
bullies did zero Kamikaze like to criticize
relentlessly, an ideal
defenceless, friendless,
and helpless "scapegoat" booby prize
scared kid, who stood
stock still cowering in an agonize
zing posture, while my whole felt as if tied
into gordian knot as
"hoodlums" did gleefully antagonize,
yet never confided hostile treatment
to either parent, I wanted to disappear
and DIE, hence escapist wishes aye did fantasize!
The roller left a wet
Textured topography
On the drywall
A fresh
Continent
Of liquid chalk
Under a steady
Unblinking gaze
The gloss begins to warp
The fumes carry
A quiet hum, a frequency
That unlatches the deadbolt of the mind
My eyes
Track
A single, rebellious drip
A slow-motion comet
Cutting through
A matte sky
In the five seconds
It takes
To drop an inch
I have built
A city
In my head
Lived a lifetime
Inside a song
I forgot the title of
And wondered
If the sky
Feels this heavy right before it rains
The perimeter is curing now
Turning dull
At the edges
By the time
This surface
Loses its shine
I will have traveled
Lightyears
And forgotten my way back