Long Down the stairs Poems
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I came home one evening after a hard day at work,
To find a surprise waiting for me.
I ran to the table, my heart filled of glee.
I imagined him sneaking in with a sexy little smirk.
It was a wooden box, beside it a mask of snowy white
I opened it up and found a note.
Written on it was a cute quote:
“We will dance until the clock strikes midnight”
I followed the rose pedals sprinkled on the floor,
They led me to my bedroom.
My heart went boom, boom, boom,
As I opened the door.
I could not believe what I found,
For it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
An elegant white with a beads of green.
On my bed was a gorgeous gown.
There was another letter,
This one written out in pedals all across the bed.
The message read:
“There is a hole in my heart, and seeing you tonight will make it all better”
I put on the dress and looked in the mirror.
And I found another remark.
“Get all dressed up and come to the old park,
Our moment together draws nearer and nearer.”
I rushed down the stairs,
Grabbed the mask on the way out.
Ran down the street, my mind clear of all doubt,
For this man was the answer to my prayers.
I got to the park and saw him waiting,
And I discovered I was not the only one to wear a mask.
He told me that I had one more task.
He said “Close your eyes and think back to when we started dating”
Obeying him, I closed my eyes,
And without me knowing, he got down on one knee.
Everything fell silent, then I heard “Desiree will you marry me?”
That’s when my heart burst into a million fireflies.
I opened my eyes, stuck in a trance
As I was not expecting this thrill.
I flung my arms around him and replied “Oh Stephen of course I will!”
Just then he grabbed me and we began to dance.
Just like his note said,
We danced until the clock struck midnight,
Holding me close with all his might,
Right on his shoulder is where I placed my head.
The rain began to pour,
So we ran hand in hand.
He said “This is not how I planned”
Then we reached my door.
We entered my house,
Where it was all cozy and dry.
Once again my heart began to fly,
As I stared into the eyes of my soon to be spouse.
All he said was “I Love You”
That was all I wanted to hear,
For me to wipe away all fear.
Knowing he loved me, I replied “I Love You Too”
*Not a true story, just a sort of fanatasy I suppose*
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
one winter night,
I guess about 2 years ago
in my old unheated home,
which I have since sadly left,
I must tell you a remarkable story
about an attempted theft
about 4 or so in the morning
I was upstairs in my bedroom
reading in bed, in but my underpants
insomnia a plague, but what was to happen soon
might make the faint hearted swoon
suddenly I heard a crash
and shattered glass
the whole house shook
I thought, oh, now here we go...
whoever it was,he
must be a real big a_s
I figured it was a crook
and for me that's all it took
anger and rage engulfed me
and I felt my pressure rise
I can just imagine what you would'a seen
then, were you to see my eyes!
I jumped up out of bed
and in only underpants
started loudly to rage,
you should'a heard my rants!!
I was crazed with boiling anger
how dare they invade my home!
I'll kick some butt tonight
just give me half a second,
they'll see me really fight!
down the stairs I raced
screaming like a banshee
it must'a been a sight
too bad you didn't see
well I guess they had second thoughts
about dealing with one so mad
they took there change to run
only choice they really hadI got
see this was a drug infested
ethnic 'hood,
need I say any more?
but even so i was surprised
that they would break my door
so I patched up the door
as best as i could do
but sure feeling less secure
and you know that must be true
well in but just one more week
they tried it once again
what kind of jerks are they?
these drug crazed criminal men?
this time again I was reading
as I am known to do
but still in just my shorts
I guess you wonder who
how stupid are these skuzz-butts,
these turkey hare brained fools?
and what inbred from what
must be
their inferior genetic pools
this time I called the cops,
and soon enough they came
again about 5 am
but one thing not the same
across the street was standing
some weird looking guy
he watched with great interest
you could see it in his eye
the cops began to question him
as i sat upon my porch
for about 20 minutes
my body heat began to scorch
the cops they even yelled
at me to shut my mouth
these young rookie cops I guess
would be better off down south
I sat in undershorts,
the sun would soon arise
I wondered what was going on
and much to my surprise
continued
Sally Sue Has A Bad Day
Little Sally Sue awoke one day feeling quite blue.
Her mom asked "Why, whats wrong with you?"
Sally replied, "If i only knew."
She looked in her closet and hated her clothes.
She looked in the mirror and hated her nose.
She looked all around hating everything she had.
She glanced out the window, even the neighborhood's bad.
She slumped down the stairs to get ready for school.
And scoffed at her breakfast (A bowl full of gruel)
In walked her dad asking "Why you look sad? My dear do you need to talk?"
I could drive you to school in a minuet or two."
"No thanks dad i'd rather walk.
So she headed down the block tripping over a rock, her books flying everywhere.
She said in a huff as she picked up her stuff.
"This day's becoming a nightmare!"
When she got to school things did not get better
(Caught her arm on a nail and ruined her sweater)
Sally screamed in frustration as she examined her sleeve.
"That's it! Now i'm really peeved!"
"I'm sick of my life and i'm sick of theis day! I wish the whole world would just go away!"
There was a hush in the hallway, the whole room sighed.
Sally lost control and she started to cry.
A teacher came up and took Sally aside.
She sat Sally down and said, "There now, don't cry."
"What is the trouble dear? Why all the strife? Why do you scream that you hate your life?"
Sally wiped her face trying to erase, how stupid she felt for crying.
She put on a frown and stared at the ground,
"Nothing" she said obviously lying.
"I believe you" teacher said "Though your words aren't quite true."
"Something is wrong-though it seems "nothing" to you."
"Though your problems seem small, they can add up quite fast"
"And become overwhelming, seeming forever to last."
"Just do your best to take each problem one by one. Understanding as you do, life's not always that fun."
"There will be bad days and responsibility too."
"It's that way for everyone, not only you Sue."
Now what would you do if you were Sally Sue?
Would you run and hide knowing life can be hard?
Because Sally did not, Sally was much too smart.
She went on with her day with her head held high, remembering not to give up and always to try.
And her day DID get better as she took things one at a time.
And when they did not work out,
Sally Sue didn't mine.
A nobody
Scared by the sound of his own voice
Following the girl home from school
In his mind this is normal
Stalking girls
He grabs her jacket
Pulling her backwards unto the ground
Placing a cloth around her nose and mouth
Gagging her until she sleeps for a while
He drags her through the woods
Branches hitting her every which way he turns
Dragging her along until he reaches the cabin
Picking her up over his shoulders opening the door to the cellar
Locking the door behind him he walks down the stairs slowly
He places her on a chair and ties her wrist to the handles
Tying her feet to the legs of the chair
Tightening the rope around her neck to the back of the chair
He undresses her waiting for her to wake up
Several hours pass
She wakes up
Sweating and screaming
Crying and yelling at him
He places duct tape around her mouth
Placing a knife against her stomach
She groans and yelps
He takes the knife away and looks at her
Grabbing her face and telling her shes beautiful
He turns around and stands with his back towards her
As he starts to say
But its the beautiful people that need fixing
He takes the tape off her face and holds her chin tightly
He carves a smile on her face
Cutting her mouth from ear to ear
Telling her
Smile dear it makes you adorable
He grins and sits the knife down
Laughing as she bleeds
She tries to move her mouth
It just drops open
He looks at her smiling
Now that makes you truly beautiful
He leaves her there for a while
Later returning
Placing a needle with a string attached to it
Sticking it into the skin around her mouth that is hanging open
He stitches her back together
Cant make up his mind
He slaps her and leaves her there for another few days
She sits with her eyes peeled wide open
A tear falling as she tries wiggling her hand free from the rope
As she frees her hand she runs her fingers over her stitches
Only to find out her whole mouth has been stitched together
She cant speak
She can only mumble
She frees the rest of her limbs
Trying to stand up and walk but she's to weak and falls
He runs down the stairs
Yelling at her to get up
She doesn't move
He kicks her in the stomach
She doesn't budge
He picks her up and uses her as a puppet
For his own needs
He then buries her beside his other victims
Only to find out shes still alive
Her hand slips through the dirty old mud
5-28-2013
While I was an exchange student I questioned a monk from Italy about the predictions of Notradomus. He frustratedly sent me to a chapel that sent me to a small college that had a course that featured "Earth Wind and Hail" a course on natural predictions, comets, stars being born, there was even a class on contellation reform, what to do if a star- out of a contellation, fell or burned out. Answer being that one- you can try to replace it, two- try to regain it, three-move it back to its place, four- carry on without it, five- destroy entire constellation.
Anways the third trimester of Space Threory I questioned a guest on the specifics behind one set of predictions. I was told that the only set of predictions that he claimed were not predictions were about the years 2012- 2015. A friend of his had published an article in a news paper that claimed Sir Notradamius was a fraud and that he based his predictions on fairy rythms and fabels. The example that he based his facts on was an old Chinese tale about a boy from Japan my best memory of the tale was as follows.
A boy about the age of ten decided that he wanted to take a local medicine to the Great King whom was sick with what is decribed as the flu. This king is decribed to as one who was kind to his people and decided many foriegn treaties. This king was not a Great Royal King but he served his charities well. He was know as leading his armies in great wealth. The moving armies followed on going wars and since they stayed behind all of the action they picked up hurt and widowed people fed them made them well and treated them humainly so the captives were happy to be with the army. The king was accused of slavery of people that the wars were over of, when the king ordered the people to leave they begged to be able to remain with the king so loudly that the Earth shook of it.
The boy is decribed as walking a street to where there are stairs the name of the ancient city means stairway of the gaurdians. They believe the land inside of the city was blessed and the stairs were an protective barrier holding the gold bars in. Whatever that means. The boy went down the stairs and got on a boat. Went on a day long boat ride with a goul that was black wearing a hooded cloak and pushed the boat with a stick. They rode the river to Africa
Chorus x 2
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
1. A personality that is a well powered Agora
for affluence and power to trade
from collar to ankle, my long covering is embroidered
with stitches of laurels
as life’s willy, I stand against nature’s passive resistance
educated beyond satisfaction
as I neither drink the slurry of poverty
nor condemned in the scaffold of barbarism.
The depth of my influence
surpasses the borders of space
the slideshow of my worth stays not reclusive
as my path has gone beyond fate
to put fortune under no quandary to visiting me.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
2. There is no contest
to my flag standing highest and brightest
yet my blessings still feel reclusive
my known image will stand collateral for global peace.
Media houses even in the desert
roar in a moving tempest of my reputation
yet not half the needed depth is achieved.
My commanding drive and intimidating leadership
the first education to all newborns
I am a feather bed to all my networks
even in the grave, my decaying bones
will be worth more than the basilicas of ancient Europe.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
3. Stronger and continuously refined I am
as I stand on top
and drink the revile, like old wine
of those who wish to live in forgery of me
the air is tagged with my trademark
as communities mimic
from the chronicles and sweeteners of my exploits.
The sun rises from my past
to reiterate a future covered with curtains
of red silk and exotic flowers.
Down the stairs to a panhandler is stupid
but my pride can wear an Asian salwar
rather than an Italian blazer
yet, fully satisfied to cling
unto the appendages of God’s glory.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
Rats in the cellar, squirrels in the tree,
things aren't the same as they used to be.
When I left for school with my li'l lunch pail,
I didn't expect a penguin to swallow a whale.
Such an injustice, I've never seen,
a cantaloupe falsely imprisoned a bean.
It's unheeded screams, uncontrolled laughter,
when it's trolls that live happily ever after.
Doors off their hinges, pancakes are stacked,
biscuits are burning, windows are cracked.
Termites in the baseboards, rabbits that fly,
pigs that regularly take to the sky.
Voices that whisper, mad dogs that bite,
winds that go howling and look for a fight.
Wrapped in cellophane, mixed in a blender,
taped up in cardboard and returned to sender.
Rainbows and ravens, kaleidoscope dreams,
leafless branches, gallows lit by moonbeams.
Music boxes, pink ribbons and bows,
tags come on packages; tags come on toes.
Curtains lifted, sick, unsavory scenes,
gear wheels in gear wheels run strange machines.
Dissected, disowned and double-downsized,
unaided, unacknowledged and unrecognized.
Puzzles, conundrums that cannot be solved,
water plus turpentine make witches dissolve.
Pimentos are diced, harsh words are spoken,
nightmares are jumbled; eggshells are broken.
Lost in the doldrums, eyeballs protrude,
walking on blisters, a horse latitude.
Spineless jellyfish, lackeys and flunkies,
silver tongued vultures, branch swinging monkeys.
Experts and pundits, paid authorities,
Kool-Aid in canisters, down on your knees.
Bishops take pawns, the fat lady sings,
fires ablaze on black nights with kings.
Shattered stars, fragmented stones,
shining splinters, bleak, burning bones.
Songs without meaning, songs without words,
sung by unseen phantoms and silent birds.
Refrigerators with pictures nobody knows,
eyes staring back, no answers disclose.
Spiders and spinning bicycle wheels,
buffalos, bandits, and slippery seals.
Electric toothbrushes, electric chairs,
lethal injections, pushed down the stairs.
Pieces on the floor, a sad state of disarray,
the gift you've left me is insanity's bouquet.
You stole my cookies, pilfered my cat,
laughed at me roundly and turned me down flat.
Mice it in the attic go chitter chatter,
have I lost my wits or gone mad as a hatter?
Moving Into a Haunted House
By Elton Camp
It was a story the Realtor had heard before
We were looking for an old house to restore
“It has to have a basement and two floors
If it was a Victorian, we’d like that even more.”
“On a large plot of land the house has to be.
We don’t want to look out and neighbors see.
It can’t be some old relic that is falling down
But we’ll do work on the house and ground.”
The agent then tried to hide a delighted grin
“Long on the market this one place has been.
Your description made think of it right away.
Get in my car and we’ll drive out there today.”
The fine old mansion wasn’t near to any towns
The driveway twisted through neglected grounds
Through a break in the trees, we caught a sight
The place brought a mixture of fright and delight
When we found that all furnishing were included,
We made an offer and the deal was soon concluded
At closing, the Realtor one thing more did reveal
“I learned it’s haunted so you can cancel the deal.”
“Hey, I am not some ignorant, superstitious fool.
One who believes in zombie, ghost, witch or ghoul.
If any spirits are in our house as you have predicted,
They better be packing as they’re about to be evicted.”
The very first night after we moved in from the town,
We were about to go to bed, but heard a horrible sound
It was something like from a movie or a scary dream
It was frightful, as if some tortured soul did scream
The source of the disturbance was on the first floor
We crept down the stairs and heard it more and more
I wondered if we would still be alive the next morning
I reproached myself for failing to take agent’s warning
Finally to find the dark, noisy room took us several tries
I shone into it the light and saw a pair of glowing eyes
The cries came to a stop and trembling I stood still
And down my back there ran a fright-induced chill
The flashlight tumbled to the floor from my hand
I couldn’t decide if it was better that I run or stand
What happened next was, to me, almost too much
A soft form, my lower legs began to lightly touch
I felt that I could not withstand the fright any more,
But my very feet felt as they were glued to the floor
My wife switched on her flashlight and yelled “Scat.”
Down the hallway scooted a lost and frightened cat
In the back of my head, in the garden shed,
I see him as clearly as fresh white paint:
A little boy sat on the creosote floor,
Dragged grazed knees hugged up to his chin,
So familiar, so resonant and never faint.
He shivers and weeps on the wooden ground,
Alone, almost silent, with hardly a sound,
In retreat from a world he cannot understand
That Is ruled and defined by a callused hand.
It's his seventh birthday and a slowing flood
Of mucus and blood flows from swollen lips,
A tooth bares a nerve and a jagged chip,
But the pain means no more than dandelion clocks
Or cuckoo spit; the act alone the gestalt of it.
Some days he would walk for miles,
To see beyond the next hill, around the bend,
Kicking slowly along, his shadow twice his size,
Dwarfing him, tracking him, a passive friend.
Perhaps to find some haven, someone to
Take him in, rescue his heart, and want him;
But strangers, though kindly, approached
With the dusk and it always ended the same way:
"Where do you live?" they would say
And thoroughly drilled, he would quietly reply,
In emotion drained monotone,
His address and number of the telephone,
And they always took him back home.
Some days he would walk for miles,
To sit on the edge of the viaduct,
Perched perilously with nothing to lose,
Dangling feet in small scuffed shoes,
Dropping pebbles and stones to the
Rocks and undergrowth far, far below,
Imagining if he may fall in their stead,
What then would be left to know?
The fall down the stairs snapped his ankle
Like a spindly twig, fractured some ribs,
Dislocated his jaw.
The children's ward, antiseptic and bright,
Young nurses in uniform, starched and white
Were so kind to him, he almost cried, bringing concern
And orange squash and a paper straw.
Sometimes it’s like this when things go wrong,
A scapegoat is needed to blame things on.
People thought him shy, with head bowed low,
Lost in comics and books, lost in himself,
Denying the threat of another blow.
He was not shy, just hiding and biding,
Keeping his head down and trying not to show.
Life is a scoundrel, and time a cohort thief,
Stealing a childhood with no reprieve,
Leaving only the slow burning sense of relief,
That an unpleasant childhood seemed mercifully brief.