Long Dorm room Poems
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I stare at my baby’s perfect bald head,
Watching her chest rise and fall,
Her precious lips poised for her next feeding.
I wonder if this is my last sleepless night spent drinking in her infantile perfection.
My little girl starts Kindergarten today,
Pretty plaid dress and sparkly shoes,
A backpack with her favorite princess on it.
I wonder if this is my last time knowing that she’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss her.
I just left my beautiful protege at college,
A new dorm room with movie posters
And everything important to her proudly displayed.
I wonder if this is the last time she’ll call our house her home.
The amazing woman I birthed is 23.
Cancer now consumes her body
And my time, driving to chemo, holding her hand, praying until my knees give out.
I wonder if this is the last treatment — the one that will end her pain.
I stare at my baby’s perfect bald head,
Reminded of when she was a newborn.
But this time I’m not feeling the joy, only fear.
I wonder if this will be the last time I hold this exceptional soul in my arms.
I stare at the lovely woman beneath my tree,
Her short, curly hair a welcome change,
Making her blue eyes sparkle even more than the Christmas lights.
And I am certain this will not be the last time I thank my God for a miracle.
Dorothy could not wait to become eighteen, so she could move away.
She loved her parents, but they were smothering her.
You have to be in by eleven.
Call us when you leave work.
Let us know if you are not coming home for supper.
Do not stay out all night unless you have permission.
She was tired of their rules, their Christmas carols and their Christmas house.
Her mother always had it decorated from side to side with Santas and snowmen.
In December, not every month, but thirty days of this was way too many!
Dorothy moved away to college.
She loved her new life.
At first.
But then….
She realized that no one in the dorm noticed or cared
If she got home by curfew or if she got locked out for the night.
No one cared if she did her homework or if she failed her classes.
December came and there was no explosion of Christmas in her dorm room.
Her roommate did not decorate, and all she had was a Christmas stocking.
She could hardly wait to drive home after her finals.
Her mother had decorated the front tree, the driveway, and the bushes.
Her heart leapt with joy when she opened the door to the Christmas house
She felt loved now.
With precious children you’ve been blessed.
You’ve guided them with loving care.
While helping them become their best,
your standards have been high, but fair.
You’ve breathed their names in every prayer.
Your eighteen-year-old, college-bound,
is packed; a distant dorm room waits.
She says she’s ready, but you’ve found
you’re NOT. Emotion permeates
your being; your resolve, abates.
Now like a fledgling on the wing,
she’ll take her flight and find her way.
Embrace once more. Release; don’t cling!
Your love and pride in her convey.
Then—you must let her walk away!
November 23, 2021
entered in the "W" New Poem Poetry Contest placed 3rd
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Classmates — Back in Time
by Kevin Davis 2024
Just the other day, I paused at dusk,
Sifting through a box marked “school.”
Inside lay yearbooks — creases worn,
Smiles frozen in time’s gentle pull.
Teachers and classmates, familiar as breath,
Once roamed those locker-lined halls —
Four fleeting years of chatter and change,
Echoes caught in cinder block walls.
So where did friends go, where do they live,
What do they do with their time?
Are they happy, are they content,
Are they satisfied with how they use their mind?
Some leapt toward campuses lush and wide,
Chasing knowledge like a breeze —
Dorm-room debates and midnight oil,
Midterms rustling autumn leaves.
They became the dreams their parents spoke,
Diplomas framed in quiet pride,
Following maps of purpose and chance,
To futures they shaped and amplified.
So where did friends go, where do they live,
What do they do with their time?
Are they happy, are they content,
Are they satisfied with how they use their mind?
Others stepped into workday rhythms,
Brimming with resolve —
Steel-toed boots or office chairs,
They let their talents evolve.
Paychecks turned into baby shoes,
Mortgages, and Friday night grills —
Love found early, steady and bright,
Blooming in everyday thrills.
So where did friends go, where do they live,
What do they do with their time?
Are they happy, are they content,
Are they satisfied with how they use their mind?
Some answered a greater call to serve,
In boots, fatigues, and creed —
Letters sent from foreign lands,
Written in dust and dignity’s seed.
Whether drafted or drawn by honor’s flame,
They bore both pride and pain —
Many came home with deeper truths,
And stars stitched into their name.
So where did they all go, where do they live,
What do they do with their time?
Are they happy, are they content,
Are they satisfied with how they use their mind?
Then I closed that yearbook gently,
Its pages worn like a friend’s old coat,
And reached for voices I once knew,
Chasing echoes their hearts still wrote.
We met again beneath summer skies,
Where laughter healed the space between —
And found that though we’d wandered far,
The roots of us remained unseen.
Now we know where we went, where we live,
And what we do with our time —
Most seem happy and content,
And satisfied with how we use our mind.
Rooms
by Odin Roark
How prescient that first room
The one where under the bed
Proved private the light
Where flashlight and toy soldier
Became all that was needed
Came
The room with desk
Where locked door
Gave entrance to video games
While parents assumed study
Came
SATs where drawn curtains
No boom box
Only silence
And the study focus
Made the room
Came
The dorm room
With beer-can-crushing-to-the-head roommate
Making for final exam hell
Where stolen passions
With sorority queen fantasy
Made eating
A non sequitur
Came
The office walls
The room for fortune
Made eventually corrupt
With drawn curtains
Came
Marriage’s bed-room
That place where all became prescient again
Where a child would validate a wife’s existence
While with loving acceptance
A husband’s duty would be carried out
Came…
Came…
The rooms never stop
Some their final architecture
That of nursing home green
Other’s of palm-frond-shack freedom
Still others…
Soho 3-story condo prison
Rooms
Always unknown
Until they’re not
Forever a four-wall measure
The capsule
The coffin
Chosen destiny
One way
Or another
We were (Leong, Peter, Anna and I) eating at a popular Italian eatery (outdoors) and the check arrived - I swooped across the table and grabbed the check from the waiter. Peter whispers, “You can’t pay for everything the entire weekend.” “Why not?” I say, “It makes me happy.” “There’s no reason to,” he says. “I need a REASON??” I snort, which always makes Leong laugh. “Have you MET me?” I say, shaking my head dubiously. “I’ve met you,” he pronounces, “and you’re a NUT. Thank you,” he says, indicating the check exasperatedly.
Peter’s transfinancial: a rich man trapped in a poor man’s body. He has taste but he exists on a grant and a meager stipend. We’re just friends but I’m holding a bag and he’s not. Besides, he needs a new laptop - badly - and shouldn’t be squandering his grips on me.
Greek-life is on the rise. Maybe it's because those groups offer planned social events or because, with COVID winding down (covid smovid) there’s more going on. There’s a pressure here - to be your most authentic self - to be top academically, socially - to have your calendar filled out. There’s a frantic nature to it. I’m being lowkey rushed for a fraternity (for next year) but I love my roommate situation and I think I’d druther stick with this set I love.
Which begs the question about social time. Should it be methodical, relentless, super planned out? Super planned interactions can seem transactional and not easy going and natural. College social life is so different from high school. College life is so much more charged in every way. The range of people you meet, the broader perspectives, the available options for activities.
I find myself in a search for balance. Private time vs social time. Before covid, you’d go to school and then you’d come home to your room, where you could just hang out. It was a self-care place.
At university, a dorm room is less of a “home” where you can be alone and spend that healing time. You never know who's going to be in your living room and what they’re up to. I get claustrophobic when my door is closed so I rely a lot on noise-canceling technology.
A dorm room can seem like those covid lockdown days - there’s little or no separation between academic and private space. I’m just unpacking some thoughts. *shrug*
Slang:
set = click/group
grips: duckets/money
holding a bag = flush/monied
When I think about my family…I like to picture them this way:
each member as a different flower…In a beautiful bouquet.
As parents and grandparents
we love when the bouquet gets together…
how all the flowers blend…
and we’ve experienced many a moment when we wished
that moment would never end.
When the family is all gathered, however,
as beautiful a sight as this is to see…
our time is spent flitting from flower to flower
like the butterfly and the bee.
So every now and then we also like to find the time…
where we can get away…
to meet with only one flower……
and form a miniature bouquet.
We met up with our two youngest grandchildren
just the other day…
one for dinner and one for lunch…
forming two miniature bouquets.
We visited with each one individually
talked about school and life…we even visited one dorm room
delighting in the chance to celebrate each flower in full bloom.
We love our time spent with one flower…
where for that day they are the star…
a chance to tell them how much we love them
and how proud of them we are.
Yes, the times our entire family gets together are precious…
for dinners or a holiday…
but we also cherish those times alone
with our miniature bouquets.
Lisa comes into my room and flops on the bed. The day had been uncompromisingly gray, windy and cold. The night sky was a snowy, blowing darkness, an absolute void that absorbed the campus lights and reflected nothing back. “I’m missing Spring Break,” Lisa she says.
“It doesn’t even seem like Spring Break happened,” I say. “Most Yalies went to Puerto Rico this year, I think, from my sampling.”
“RIGHT?” Lisa said, “EVERYONE says that - we’re in sync. But *I* enjoyed Paris,” Lisa continued, “I liked your family - no - I LOVED your family,” she amends.
“THAT’s a strong take,” I say, chuckling.
“I watched basketball with your uncle (Rémi) and cousins and helped your grandma cook,” she explains, “I felt like a part of your family.”
“Aww,” I say, “You ARE part of my family now - you’re TRAPPED,” and we laughed.
They invented spring break because after several months, the student mind starts to notice a harsh reality - how much their dorm room resembles a cinder-block jail cell - and starts to wonder how a lifetime of study and stress over grades has gotten them no further in life than the average felon.
We’re at lunch. Lisa says, “Ok, what’s new with you?” Keep in mind we see each other ten times a day.
“Well,” I say, I’ve decided that “The Beatles are for spring.” Lisa laughs. “Stop!” I demand, “I’m going deep. Today’s song is Julia,” I say, “It’s John Lennon’s song to his mom who was run over by a car when he was a child.” “I love that song,” Lisa says.
“Ok, what about you?” I ask.
“My song right now is “Move like a Boss,” Lisa says, “When I’m walking across campus, with my air pods on - I’m intense, don’t get in my way - I’m dangerous, I’ll Will Smith you - I scare me.”
“Good to Know,” I say, wishing I’d gotten a lemon brownie.
Then add, “I’ve got this presentation on Monday that I haven’t even had time to *look* at yet. If I don’t get on it by this weekend it’ll be a nuclear-level disaster. I started on it yesterday and the Internet went down for 20 minutes. It was stressful - of course, you don’t know how long the outage is going to be when you’re IN it - and I had THINGS to do - is that convoluted? ”
“No,” Lisa says, nodding in agreement, “losing the Interweb’s traumatic.”
Charlie was as eely as a bar of soap.
I knew that in kindergarten when I saw him slip Ms. B’s bracelet into his pocket.
But I did not say anything, because it seemed funny.
He started out shoplifting, but I refused to help.
That did not satisfy him, so he was breaking into cars by the time he was eleven.
He went to live with another family, but we still got to go to school together.
By age 18, I saw his picture on the news a few time as “person of interest”.
He bragged that he could always give “the coppers the slip”, and he proved it.
He came to my college dorm room a few times to visit; he had the best stories, loud ones.
We usually looked over our stuff good and hard after he left – my roommates and me.
If you keep letting him in, we will have to move, they warned me. I had mixed feelings when they did.
Charlie and I had been good friends since kindergarten.
Seventeen years of friendship is ridiculously hard to throw away, so I decided to keep it.
Charlie finally got caught and held by the police. He was thirty-four at the time.
I had not seen him in four or five years.
I visited him in jail after his mom called me.
His stories were big and bold, outrageously funny! I laughed harder than I had laughed in years.
When I returned home, a green package of gum was missing out of my right pocket.
Slippery as an eel, Charlie was, and it made me happy.
That Charlie! I said, knowing I would go back and take more gum.
You cannot throw away a friend like Charlie.
I take another bite of sweet pumpkin pie
Wondering why I deprive myself of her company
Most of the year, only allowing her to grace my mouth
on Thanksgiving week.
You can take the rest of it home, our host offers.
Seeing how totally enamored I am with her.
I put aluminum foil lovingly around her top
Begrudging my four-year-old cousin’s plea
“I want to taste pumpkin.”
He does not like it, of course,
so his unthinking mother throws it away.
I dig it out of the trash seconds later.
Tiny bite marks will not stop me from
devouring this piece in my dorm room.
Grandma gives me a thumbs up
as I leave to go back to college.
Next year I will make another one
just for you, she says.