Long Mattresses Poems
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The child is always first currency.
Before the ink dries,
before the courtroom coffee cools,
before the television woman folds her careful face into concern,
someone has already counted what the suffering is worth.
The girl with her backpack split open on the evening pavement,
the boy with the shaking hands,
the mother filling out forms
while her mouth tastes like pennies—
their pain moves through offices like electricity.
A man in a tie eats salmon under dim light while speaking softly about liability.
Somewhere else, another man prints flyers, another signs contracts, another builds a campaign speech out of a frightened family’s photograph.
Even mercy has invoices now.
The prison counts bodies at dawn like a farmer counting cattle before weather.
The news anchor smooths her hair and says tragedy with the same mouth that sells mattresses after commercial break.
And the innocent—
God, the innocent— they stand there blinking under fluorescent lighting,
still believing truth is a living animal someone will eventually feed.
I have watched them:
the quiet man at the bus stop,
the old woman translating forms she cannot fully read,
the son who says I didn’t do what they say in a voice
already apologizing for existing.
There are industries built entirely from human fear.
A frightened country is profitable.
A lonely country is profitable.
A divided country is profitable beyond measure.
The innocent do not know this at first.
They think the world is a courtroom,
that evidence matters,
that adults tell the truth once enough damage is done.
Then they learn:
there are people who would bottle another person’s grief
and place it on a shelf if the market were strong enough.
Still, every now and then, someone refuses payment.
A public defender staying late.
A stranger telling the truth when silence would be safer.
A woman placing her hand on another woman’s shaking back in the hallway outside court.
No profit there.
Only the terrible, unmarketable cost of remaining human.
In a world
where humanity is worth nothing at all.
ALLADDIN’S LAMP
Walking a day by Almeria’s desert
Where are shot Western films
And other variegated games
Suddenly I put mine’s right foot
In the Alladdins’ mouth lamp
And, in a flash, I heard a voice saying:
-Shocking mistake¡ During I was sleeping
On a bed with two mattresses
One step on my “so long¡”, to me
That was dreaming with a black cat
Falling in love with a greyish she cat
Near the door of a convent
Where a friar piss on the twos
And the rabid black cat
Leaping from his beloved greyish she cat
Scratched the friar’ tail
The friar, who, now, cry and cry:
-Mamma mia from the Sky
That the cat scratched my clapper¡
I saying to Alladin
Asking to him thousand forgivenesses:
Do You know to play guitar?
He answering me singing:
-Ouch, squid, squid
Your mother bad and you *****
You put oneself apron up
Your love looking at the North, at midday
And Your father is called as “SliceMelons”
Woolly dog, dog without teeth
Don’t ask to me Your three whises
Because I’m giving these to You just now:
To Your father, the peach
To Your mother, the pear
And to You, the pepper
And know that now and ever
The hare runs by the sea
The sardines by the hill
The fishes by the stubbles
And the shares are made with peel of bacon.
-As You, I said to him
At the top of one’s voice
Taking out the foot from the lamp
And with a kick, puting it
Below his chin.
I retired gracefully, happily, knowing I could never be fully completely replaced even to this day.
I was slick, photographic, revered by so many, loved by a few, heavy, a bit conceited but in a good way.
Diligent children hid me in boots, closets, drawers, or moldy piles of black and white laundry where I rarely had to stay.
I came out in the early 1900’s, evolved so well I didn’t recognize myself by 1959, my heyday.
I was routinely hidden under bedclothes, mattresses or pillows; contraband, peeked at by flashlight.
I belonged to the whole family, but whoever found me first hid me well; I was never shared outright.
My captor would slide me out silently, hoping their siblings would not discover me and start a fight.
I was the prize of the month, the trophy of the hour, the coveted, revered, brightest of the bright.
Brothers and sisters fought each other to pull me out of their rural mailboxes to hide me under the couch.
Coveted, cherished, loved, revered; fought over, fawned over, poured over; I was never ever like a slouch.
I was thrilled that I was circled, starred, torn up, folded, figures were written all over me, and it caused a little ouch.
A big part of Sears, and Christmas too, I brought dreams, hopes, and anticipated joys, causing more than one wage earner to grouch.
Different Opinions Ain't Attacks
Relax if I wanted drama, I'd
Turn on Reality TV and watch folks
Falling to pieces
I'm not throwin' shade, I'm throwing thoughts,
And half the occasions they bounce off
You like "girl " , that's all you got?
We're just a pair of brains doin'
Mental gymnastics, Flippin' ideas like
Bargain-bin mattresses- Unsteady but
Somehow still workin' in practice.
Flippin thoughts like those mysteries-
Brand mattresses online-
You don't know what's inside, but it holds
Up just fine.
Flippin ' perspectives like discount mattresses-
A lil' unstable, but still gets the job done with
Zest.
Disagreement Ain't danger-its
Cardio for the cortex, A lil' jog for your
Judgement,
A stretch for your overtone, no beef, no grief,
No emotional sabotage- just grown- folks
Echoing through this community, epilog
Where the acoustics make every opinion
Sound like a monologue collage.
You toss your angel, I toss mine right back-
That's not a threat, that's a conversational
Life hack.
And if I crack a joke mid-debate, don't fluster
Humor's my way of keepin' the vibe
Aerodynamic, So your ego don't inflate
Like a economical pool float- tragic
No shade, no blade, no drama on deck-
Just swagger in the jargon and respect in
The subtext, Cause grown-folks can disagree
Without fuming it's complex.
So breathe let your thoughts expand out
And yield in.
Let your peace stay seated while your mind
Takes a stand,
Cause different opinions ain't attacks,
They're just an extra way to understand...
And if you still feel attacked?
Dear, that's your WI-FI- not my words-
You need to reset your emotional modem
And try again.
Miles past the nightstand
over the plastic water bottle.
the Ambien pill dispenser
and the soul-bruised eye shades,
an arrhythmic clock
ticks like a bombed-out tank.
Of course there is the lampshade
(that lighthouse for the luminescent krill
of submerged consciousness)
that seems attached to my skin
whenever body parts want to cut ties
with a mattresses concave reality.
Secreted like a drugged shark
in the shallow recesses of a snaring drawer
a snubby barrel with six mad prayers
snugs up against a snoring bible.
The raven iridescence
of night-cats prowl a life leaking bed;
occasionally they look up
their eyes shining
as they search for an alien presence.
On its four arthritic legs the nightstand
watches;
its tour of duty still patrolling a far off
conflict of doubt and faith.
Time to turn over the hull of being,
upright any surface
with a legibly printed label,
then haul that address back in
from the far side of an arm’s reach.
Time to shuck whatever shell
still rolls unopened in the surf
of the tossed and blanketed.
Rumple Stein locked the
bedroom door and grinned,
his eyes reflecting the pale
moonlight outside.
"Beneath your very
mattresses lies the Shadow
Snatcher," he whispered,
pointing a crooked finger
downward.
"This skinny, faceless
monster stays awake forever,
hating the peaceful dreams
of sleeping girls and boys."
The children pulled their
blankets up to their noses,
freezing as the bedframes
creaked softly.
"He creeps out into the dark
because he desperately
wants to fall asleep like you."
A cold breeze swept through
the room, through all the
windows were tightly shut.
"Since he cannot rest, he
reaches up to steal your soul,
hoping its warmth brings him
sleep."
The youngest child
whimpered, realizing their
feet were hanging off the
edge of the mattress.
"If you close your eyes
tonight, he will snatch your
spirit right out of your chest."
Rumple Stein blew out the
lamp, laughing into the pitch
black, "Better stay awake forever!"
Flutterfluffing of downy goose
rocks tempest princess port-starboard.
Bed tiers for bride-to-be. Steep steps
of ladder, up t’ward skylight, soared.
Twenty tidal wave mattresses.
Jacky’s seed sprouts into beanstalk.
Ripples of corpulent stitching -
siren depths that bruise like bedrock.
Schlepping sleep on stone-wet pillows.
Won’t Gorgo* make a gorgeous bride?
Honeybuzz of beehive tangles.
The slip and slide of nightmare ride.
The feasible mother-in-law
conjured guest into blue-sea room.
Testing of oars and humpback whale.
Full moon is gold and so is groom.
Oh how this royal navigates.
She’s the sunrise, light as feather.
The salty air will pinch her cheeks.
She’s survived balmier weather.
1/21/2021
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
*Gorgo - Medusa
Poem a tribute to fairytale: The Princess and the Pea
A night of deep and dreaming sleep on a warm and firm mattress with appropriate coverings was not necessarily an item on our wish list, because we drew accustomed to the more simpler forms of mattresses that were not firm but filled with cotton, and sleep was obtained without regards to levels of comfort.
These cotton filled softies were not designed for sitting, nor for afternoon naps, and God forbid that kids should ever consider jumping on them.
These home made sleeping beauties did not sit on top of high tech and well developed inner springs designed to support the big cushions of cotton filled cloth, but rather were placed right on to flat springs of iron fitted into the bed frames made of wood and also iron.
If there was anything missing from these beds and mattresses, I suspect it would have been a sign board that read, “For Sleepers Only”. In some cases when that did not suffice, perhaps one would have continued to read the fine print, “All others, please do not sit, touch, or stare for long”.
Indeed, true sleep really happened; And O no, I never heard any complaints of back aches derived from mattresses filled with cotton. On each night that a sleeper arrived, these designer recliners were prepared to receive all comers, providing sweet sleeps.
When the morning arrived and sleepers arose from their sunken comfort zones, whether immediately or later after breakfast, someone’s chore was to “make the bed”. Today, if ever the expression “make the bed” occurred, it would be clear to mean that we straighten the pillows, spread and tuck the sheets, and top it off with coverings of blankets or quilts.
O how wonderful is the mind endowed with the power to recall the most distant memory! Sometimes the downloads of the remotest things come to the surface which were not so trivia in prior years. In those seemingly ancient times, “Make the bed” had at least one more chore no longer relevant in our homes today.
It simply meant that we open the cotton holders known as “bed-ticks”, and stir up the cotton inside, making the mattress smooth and attractive once again. Then, and only then, was it ready for sleepers the next night.
Sleep well my friend.
cj04132015
she gave so much that her tank was running on empty
money worldly possession advice love and heart blood
clothed and fed the homeless
a kind word and a few coins
to every poor beggar in sight on the long windy road
of social mobility going the wrong way towards loss
selfless she stumbled upon utter
misery devastation and destitution
surely some of the tramps would buy smokes and booze
in search for mind-numbing solace from their vile plight
who is to judge unless they marched
in somebody else’s shoes or barefoot
the neighbours chuckled she looks like one of the vagrants
and they resembled each other when the days drew to a close
nightmares filled her aspirations and dreams
but she lit candles and incense in firm prayer
one rainy freezing midnight one of her down and out drifters
set himself alight at the local petrol station in search of the light
inflamed her sorrow and the stench of hot fumes
rekindled her blazing desire to proffer even more
‘it’s my fault alone I should have invited him into my home’
but every nook and cranny had already been filled with bodies
and her pantry was empty with power for the fridge disconnected
she had sold the furniture except for mattresses a long time ago
‘should have slept on the street myself and not him´ but
does hindsight matter when blindness stole present vision
eventually the fuel pipe broke under pressure of emptiness
she would call it angel gas supplied by God’s given grace
a true people pleaser with
no charger anywhere near
the gas oven loomed as she searched for a rope in the wood wormed
attic that had infested her strong resolve and last bit of compassion
she was ready to give up and dangle in bliss
from rafters of seemingly senseless kindness
but Karma would not take her weary bones and exhausted mind
when a barely clothed women cuddled her in a smelly embrace
a toothless smile brought back her own kindness
too much decay to change her heavenly abode
23rd September 2020
Givers Contest
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Staring out of a flapping tent door,
sunset is hidden behind the hills.
Cuddled up in a flimsy sleeping bag,
I dream of a warm bed.
Morning breaks- craving hot tea,
watching my breath mist up
in the mute cold of dawn,
longing for the whistle of a kettle.
Home is more than mattresses and pillows
but a haven,
where regardless of how wrecked we are,
the door will always be open.
Home is where we feel safe.
Some spend lifetimes searching
Some walk away without a glance.
Others sleep under a makeshift roof
falling asleep to the sound of dripping water.
Many wish they had one,
Somewhere to be themselves ...