Long Living room Poems
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Mum really likes her Moggy.
The cats her pride and joy.
I swear to God it"s pampered,
much more than US her boys!
The cat it understands this,
and goes out of its way.
To suck up to my Mother,
at least ten times a day!
It really makes me jealous,
so much i gotta mention.
That cat gets on my wick.
Commanding Mums attention.
So i devised a plan,
to get a little pay back.
The best form of defence
is to go on the attack!
A family "DO" was coming.
It really made me think.
A chance for some revenge.
there"s gonna be some Drink!
The big night it arrived.
My plans were put in place.
I acted all polite,
angelic round the face.
The Party in full swing.
I borrowed Gordons Gin,
and poured it in cats bowl.
The one beside the bin.
I added the full cream.
The cat could not resist.
He lapped and lapped relapsed!
By now he was well pissed!
He threw up in the kitchen.
He threw up in the hall.
My plan was on its way,
he was heading for a fall!
I lifted Moggy up,
then opened up the door,
and promptly put him down,
upon the living room floor.
He staggered round about.
It really was a shame,
poor old Mr Moggy,
he was really out the game.
My Mothers jaw just dropped.
As Moggy took a pee,
in front of all the guests
atop the new settee.
Yes revenge is best served cold.
What else can i say.
Poor old Mr Moggy,
it just was not his day!
I said the first thing in my head.
I know it was a sin.
But i couldn"t help but say,
"Look what the cat drank in!"
This is the last piece to go. All the others are sold.
I hate to part with it, but now that I've grown old
I need to find the right home for it before I die.
I'll explain its importance if you're wondering why.
You see, it's been a treasure since before I was born.
My father found it buried in a city that was war torn.
He marveled that among all the rubble and concrete,
no scratch marred its beauty nor was it burned by heat.
It graced our living room with the status of a Queen,
Most beautiful Brazilian Rosewood vanity ever seen.
Father had to have it to match the great beauty of his wife,
Adrianna, was fragile and giving birth to me took her life.
Father gave me the vanity, a priceless piece, an heirloom.
One rainy day I was bored and was dancing around my room.
I bumped into the vanity and from behind a drawer fell a note...
"Who ever finds this, look for the secret," my Mother wrote.
That was seventy years ago, and no secret did I ever find.
Age has taken my strength away and now that I am blind,
I can no longer search for the secret within this vanity.
I want it to belong to someone kind while I still have my sanity.
It's being auctioned by verbal bid so I can hear the voice
of the one I deem worthy of my treasure. I'll make the final choice.
Money is no longer important so the auctioneer will look to me
when that special voice I hear, I'll nod and that bid will be the fee.
I've set no starting bid and no reserve for it's time to let it go.
Come, take a look. Rub your hand across the wood grain's glow.
I hope you will find the secret my Mother hid so well inside,
perhaps a young man will take it home, as a gift for his bride.
The value to me is priceless, and I would sell it for only a cent.
If I hear something in your voice, I will know for you it's meant.
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February 24, 2016 " The Auctioneer Contest by Mystic Rose
You can take an agency tour
Or a cruise to somewhere exotic.
You can cram onto buses and trains
Or sway on a camel hypnotic.
You can stand on your toes in a group
And try to see o’er the crowd,
To possibly glimpse Mona Lisa
Or hear, though the noise is so loud.
Instead of coming home tired
And set for a week in your bed
Travel the way that’s relaxing
And see more and hear more instead.
I’ve traveled the high Himalayas,
Seen mountains and valleys galore
Trudged with the yaks and porters-
No frostbite, no blizzards, no sores.
From ocean to ocean I’ve wandered
Seen whales and dolphins at play,
Walked in Australia’s Red Center
Without face nets to keep flies away.
I’ve learned much about native people,
Their customs, their habits and lore.
I’ve even been south to Antarctica
And oh, to so many sites more.
And all of this time I was sitting
In my living room lounging chair,
Dressed in pajamas and bathrobe
With books piled around in my lair.
My armchair’s a magical carpet
That whisks me wherever I wish
No planes or lines of security
Just a turn of a page and –whish!
It was sunday afternoon,
we were in the living room.
When in walked my big sister
and my whole world just went Boom!
She announced that she was pregnant!
Yes in the family way!
I was lost for words,
not a thing to say.
My Mother she went mad,
so did Dad as well,
the words that they both said,
i cant repeat or tell.
My brother he just laughed,
( I think he needs to grow. )
But then he is the youngest
and doesn"t really know!
My Sister she just cried,
yes cried and sobbed and wept,
and then on my Mothers lap,
eventually she slept!
My Mother looked at Dad,
Dad looked at the floor,
i glanced up at my brother
as he headed out the door.
The silence in that room,
was the worst i"d ever hear.
I looked at Mum and Dad,
felt the pressure and the fear!
Up the stairs went thumping,
and my brother reached his room.
We could hear him on his mobile,
relating doom and gloom.
Then we heard him laughing,
i thought " His head will roll!"
You"d think he"d know by now,
to take some Mirth Control!
I want to go back
to my childhood home
for it was the place where I was
the most happy
when I close my eyes I can see
our row house with lace curtains
on the windows
and flower boxes so pretty
it was the only one like that
and looked cozy and inviting
it was a large row house
with not one but two porches
one at the entrance
and a smaller one on the second floor
beside the front door was another tiny one
where once upon a time milk was delivered
there was a pretty round stained glass
window above that
I loved the shiny wood floors
and the grand staircase
and the French doors dividing
the living room and dining room
there was a bay window
great for reading a book
the kitchen was large and old fashioned
and I can still smell the cooking
a door led to a screened porch
and just outside that was a clothes line
my room had the small second floor porch
and mother planted flowers there for me
and I loved it so much
many a tea party happened on that porch
all the rooms were large, sunny and bright
oh, the bathtub had claws
and was like a lake for this little girl
we also had a fireplace perfect
for Christmas stockings
just thinking about that house
makes me feel warm and fuzzy
it is still there and still beautiful
and I am sure it is loved
If an ape came into my living room,
And could talk fluently and converse,
I’d speak with him about sociology,
Or to her about avoiding the perverse.
I’d ask how to form friendships,
How to foster appreciation within,
Making hints at a lack of confidence,
Causes me to falter and not win.
I’d ask about the disadvantaged,
The weaker members who lack chance,
About how to elevate and free them,
Their everyday experience to enhance.
I’d inquire about surprise, revelation,
To learn from his posture to life,
So that I could educate the kids,
On ways to deal with strife.
I’d ask if he’s embarrassed to be,
The king ape with lots of women,
Or if he just accepts his role,
Without distaste or hesitation.
I’d ask if she redistributed wealth,
Fruit each time to the more weak,
And decide to vote for socialism,
Or for social democracy’s cheek.
I’d ask about his favourite girl,
How often he returned for more,
And stand up for personalities,
In every profession’s shore.
I’d ask what she thought about,
In the spare time of her day,
And just accept the relationality,
That makes secularism okay.
I’d offer him a coffee, with help,
And accept he did not want sugar,
And reorganise my meaty diet,
To become about veggies eager.
Well now, isn’t that just dandy?!
Isn’t this some fun?!
Another Christmas cancelled.
Another party undone.
I’m double vaxed and boosted.
Short on TP, but not of stress.
I stay masked and mostly distant,
Amidst a supply chain mess.
I’m stocked up on beer, wine, and whiskey.
My cupboards are filled with canned food.
I’m blessed with enough marijuana
To keep up a good attitude.
My attention’s too skittish for Netflix.
I'm binge-watching YouTube instead.
I like the ones on power tools, and music.
My taste in p*rn is better left unsaid.
I visit Twitter, Facebook, and TikTok,
Snapchat, LinkedIn, and Zoom.
I greet strangers in the metaverse
From the depths of my living room.
I’ve done hundreds of crossword puzzles.
Built many scale model planes.
I can take a day and kill it,
Then neatly inter the remains.
And when there’s nothing, absolutely nothing left to do,
I go back to the second day of first grade
With eight Crayola crayons in a little cardboard box.
Every color matters when there’s artwork to be made.
I adore our beautiful island
in the middle of the Irish Sea.
And since we've entered lockdown,
there’s no other place I’d rather be.
All my travel plans were cancelled,
so I’m enjoying a super staycation,
and my lovely little bungalow
is a perfectly natural destination.
I often visit ‘Casa Del Back Garden.’
It’s a picturesque place, I must say.
I love to potter about in my greenhouse.
For safety sake, it’s at home we must stay.
Despite us being on lockdown
we’ve got ample food to eat,
and I get creative in ‘Gran Kitchena,’
where I can cook up a real tasty treat.
I miss seeing my friends and family,
but we contact each other by zoom,
and we can chat away quite freely
from the comfort of our own living room.
My holiday doesn’t ‘Costa Fortuna’
as lockdown rules mean we cannot roam,
so I created my own virtual vacation,
but in truth... there’s no place like home!
02/02/21
The Clock
to Barbara with all my love Frank
By Franklin Price
1/26/2016
The clock stands in our living room in a place where it should be.
It represents my love for you. It's there for all to see
Walking past I hear it ticking, for our lives a metronome
The pendulum is swinging in the place we call our home
I ordered it, without a word, in 1982.
It says it on the brass plate that declares my love for you.
It's a limited edition; fifty-one its numbered place
Chimes on the quarter hour; has the moon upon its face
When new it showed the phases, as the lunar month went past
The moon's no longer going; don't know when it phased its last
All else is still working. The hands still tell the time,
And every quarter hour, the clock still begins to chime
When the hour is completed, it is counted with a gong
If there's an hour we don't hear it, we know there's something gone wrong
Usually need to lift the weights; their falling moves the hands around:
There are three of them to keep the time, the chime and the gonging sound.
The clock is representative of the married life we've had
When I hear that it's still working, it really makes me very glad
And every time I think of you I hear the chimes and still the gong
For me the moon's still going, phases moving right along
I think it's really wonderful that the pendulum still swings
And that upon our fingers are still our golden wedding rings
And every quarter hour that I hear that old clock chime
I'm grateful that you are my wife and the clock's still keeping time
Mother, you’ve been gone for twelve months
I write poems upon your desk
The house looks different, you wouldn’t like it
Now I know why you worked and worked to keep it in order
I comprehend why you polished the silver
I believe the dishes should be put up every night
I see why we shouldn’t bring food to our rooms
Mother, we miss you terribly, we love you so
I sit in the living room, I write upon your desk
The couch smells like your perfume
The pictures rest in the closet, I don’t know why
Mother, your voice rings out on the second floor
Now I know why we tidied our rooms in the mornings
I comprehend why schoolwork comes first
I find myself being just like you “pick up your clothes”,” feed the dog”
Mother, how I wish I told you I loved you more often
The house looks different, you wouldn’t like it
Now I know why you worked and worked to keep us in order
Mother, you’ve been gone for so long
I write poems upon your desk
It feels like you’re right here
06/10/2021
Written for Lipogram Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emilie Pinet
(no letter a)