Long Staircases Poems
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Mirage
On this journey not knowing how it begun,
sensing only the thirst and the heat of the sun.
My feet in agony beyond comprehension, but anxious to go,
wondering if the village with the in, will soon show.
The heat and its hazy vapor is playing with my mind,
then I seeing the walking sense of a dreaming soul.
An appearance instantaneously reveals itself at once,
as a mighty city with golden reflections in abundance.
Glory beyond glory ever seen,
a wilderness of gardens in flourishing and fragrance so keen.
I withdraw myself into this boundless depth,
sinking towards the splendor without end thread.
My body no more in pain and only sensing close to bliss,
in pavilions bright and avenues disposed I cannot dismiss.
Illumination of reflected gems, serenity in alabaster domes,
staircases through soft waterfalls in chromes.
This unimaginable sight so very real,
and everything I sense proclaims the surreal.
Clouds in hues of purple tincture play with sapphire beams,
confused and mutually inflamed by composing realms.
Feeling as I loosen it and melting together in this promising lost,
How can I keep my sanity in this marvelous sphere?
Those temples like palaces and citadels so huge, in that atmosphere.
Is my soul in dire strait and seeing its home?
or are my thirsty delusions the eye with a thorn.
Someone is tapping my shoulder, “You should get out of the sun’’,
anxiously surprised, this gentle old lady smiled at me showing me, my in.
I call my mind a palace the way people call storms “weather,”
Like a softer word might keep it from doing so much damage.
If I say palace,
I get chandeliers instead of bars,
vaulted ceilings instead of a sentence that lasts my whole life.
It’s cold here.
Not dramatically-not the kind of cold that makes one beg for rescue.
Just the kind that settles in and never leaves.
Visitors underestimate it.
They always do.
They step inside glowing, certain that warmth is contagious, and leave rubbing their arms like the air betrayed them.
I don’t chase those who leave.
I’ve learned that running only feeds the echo.
The floors remember every footstep, the walls replay every doubt, and the silence has a way of sounding like judgment if you listen too long.
I tell myself it’s not a prison, because prisons don’t bother with beauty.
They don’t polish marble or let light collect on staircases like it’s thinking about staying.
They don’t give you rooms you can get lost in without ever technically leaving.
Still, I know the truth of it— that there’s no exit sign that actually means escape.
That this is where I will live my whole life, learning which doors stick, which thoughts frost over by morning, and which halls are too dark to go through, lest I never come out.
——
There is a garden.
It’s not obvious. You wouldn’t stumble into it by accident.
You have to want quiet more than answers, have to stop trying to prove you’re survivable.
The air changes there— not warmer, just kinder, softer.
Snapdragons crowd the paths, petals stacked like careful defenses,
Bright enough to distract from whatever shape hides beneath.
Dahlia grows wrapped in on herself, leaf over leaf, as if tenderness is something you earn access to slowly.
No one really knows what those flowers look like unguarded, and no one demands to.
In the garden, I don’t have to translate myself.
I don’t apologize for the cold or promise it will pass.
I just exist the way protected things do— intact, unreachable, alive.
Maybe that’s why I stay.
Not because the palace is kind,
But because it learned how to make room for something soft.
Because even frozen places can grow things that know how to endure.
I don’t need to love it here.
I just need one place that doesn’t ask me to leave myself behind.
One garden that understands why so many petals might be necessary,
Fantasy sold on a 50’s bottle cap;
a party-girl side-saddle sits
on a double-edged crescent moon
up high—a silver scythe in glamour-night-sky
corners of her cherry mouth tilted up
her left hand raises her glass a toast to the stars
frothy head of champagne-beer flirts
with lips spooning the rim
right hand holds the bottle instead of reality
look! no hands on a razor’s edge
precarious hilarious
a redhead with bouncy-curls and a flouncy-skirt
boot-heels over head when she laughs and Oops! falls
clouds catch her without friction and pillow her fiction head ~
but you—with wild escapade eyes—fell hard
far beyond Earth with not a soft cloud to cushion you
glam-allure just a sexy lore a filthy lure
but once you’ve been star-dusted and angel-dusted
it’s all the same…
vintage Miller bottle cap
a perfect circle like the fattened moon face
leering through broken windows
shards glitter the floor like fallen constellations
your black pearl eyes two muddy puddles
life drained through rows of tiny needle holes
slip-knot above your elbow just tight enough
your pulse beats its fist against the restraint
pounding—pounding—pounding
impatient to be bled and fed
you and this dragon’s den a dilapidated pair
abandoned and without family
you share the blank stare of broken windows
veins collapsed like crumbled staircases
empty inside of empathy and dreams—
a junkie’s spot where shooting stars crash
embers in your bloodstream turn to dust
you cook in a rusted bottle cap by candlelight
candle’s glow your Sun in a dirty universe
you pull back on the syringe with your teeth
this house unused by the living—a cold corpse
but in the warm rush of your skin’s flush
your gaunt gray body melts like hot wax
pale horsehair walls a slouchy silent witness
... your soul escapes as it scrapes across the floor
flurries blow in through broken windows
whirl of wind whistles on its rounds like a jailhouse guard
rattling beam-bones jangling ghost-bones—
user-litter scattered
like broken-wish bones
burnt fingertips and a "High Life" bottle cap
all that’s left
"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
In darkness,
I couldn't see,
the monster nearing me.
I heard,
the clock ticking,
the old wood floors,
creaking.
I felt my breath catching,
heard,
his lips smacking.
I felt,
his cold hands touching,
my innocence leaving,
and fear smothering me.
Shame will defeat me,
everytime I hear,
old clocks ticking.
Time rewinds,
when I walk,
across,
old wood floors,
that creak,
leading from staircases,
that he had climbed.
God is my light,
and he lights my way,
into darkness of night,
where my abuser haunted me.
A child fearful,
could never sleep,
always waiting in darkness,
for the human monster,
who would creep,
upon a child,
who pretended to sleep.
I'm now a voice,
who speaks loud,
my pain and suffering
left for dead,
upon my bed.
God says,
"she has won
a fierce soldier,
Is she."
High in the sky
A dove in my dreams
Circles my head,
What does this mean?
I'm now in a garden
Full of bright flowers,
But I've lost my dog
And I'm hunting for hours.
Another has staircases
And loads of wood doors,
Up and down I go
On so many floors.
I keep coming back
To the same place,
Can't find a way out
Of this roomy space.
There's a ladder that goes
From ground to the sky,
I climb and I climb
But don't get very high.
I'm running on a beach,
Feet in the sea,
I'm not puffing or achy,
It's very easy.
I'm building with Lego
It's for an exam,
I keep getting it wrong
With no diagram.
There's been a car crash,
My daughter's inside,
I can't get to her
Though I've tried and I've tried.
I'm cleaning a house,
One that I know,
But there's more and more rooms
That grow and grow.
A beautiful playroom,
With wonderful toys,
Warm and inviting,
For girls and for boys.
Now I'm cycling
On top of the sea,
I'm looking for Zeus
Am I crazy???
They’ve found a body in my back yard. I
imagine what a dead house would look
like. A stillborn Brownstone with its Jurassic
sandstone hiccupping fossils and family
feuds. Terrace houses would ripple rumour
and rife gossip from one mirrored house to the
next, those prison bars on pavements. A Bungalow
would be simpler: no basement layers or levels
of intrigue, no Who before the Dunnit. Now I
imagine what type of house would best cover a
crime…. no room in High Rise or Loft - the body
would just float, just hang there. A quickly
erected Tent could hide disturbed earth; or a
chugging Barge to clog up clay and clods of mud
over not yet decayed fingers and thumbs. A
Farmhouse has a credible need of a pyre like
an Igloo’s plausible need for ice. A Tudor revival
wouldn’t want anything of the sort. Then I imagine
how the rooms would react: bathroom tiles cracking
into brave smiles and kitchens hiding knives in fear of
another attack; staircases sagging like the confused
brow of a mourning man, a living room offended by
the very antonym of itself. I imagine what a
guilty house would look like… crocodile tears from
a Pacific Lodge and panicked lies of a Flounder, the
subtle reveals of a Dingbat. I doubt a Shotgun
would even try though, nor the Creole Cottage; just
accept its racial profiling. They’ve found a body in
my back yard. So, am I a church now I have a graveyard?
It was 5am, a cold, dark, foggy night
As Charles and I headed-out to the right
for the ‘Pont de Bir-Hakeim’ bridge across the Seine.
We weren’t the least discouraged by the rain.
When possible, we stick to the lower quays
the traffic-free promenades that run close to the Seine
The wind was bracing as we established our pace
turning west which put a fine rainy-mist in our face
The trick to running distance is to establish your breathing
I time mine to my steps, 4-steps-in and four-out, decreasing
to two-by-two as we move into our groove.
We’re aggressive runners, this is for fun
Exercising peers, who’ve run together for years
We have plans, and set signals with our hands
we wear LED lights so we’re seen at night
We edge the left bank - imagine the pace - the slow steady rhythms
Guys are stronger and faster but I hang-in there with him.
The Seine cruise ships are dark, moored at their last pier stops
The pizzerias are closed, as are the souvenir shops
After crossing the Saine via the bridge central colonnade,
the path becomes somewhat dense and dangerous,
a twisting forest of staircases and crosswalks sequitous
everything bottles down - competing for space -
bike paths, speeding cars, busses, and trains
On the right bank a Burger King is the first thing we see
Whoppers here feature brioche buns and yummy goat cheese
Once we clear the river area, a pre-dawn quiet claims the streets
scents rising from the bakeries make you want to stop and eat
It’s wet and dark as we wind our way, but we do this every day
five miles later, the gray ‘Pont d’Iéna’ bridge safely coveys
us back to the left bank with it’s tranquil vibe of birds awakening
Close to home now, entering the park, we tear into a sprint,
our own private, morning, mixed olympic track event
His senescence (he’s 55) lulls me into thinking I can beat him
but I never can - why is my defeat so consistent?
.
.
Songs for this:
Band On The Run (2010 Remaster) by Paul McCartney & Wings
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 01/03/26:
Senescence state of being old
Sing to me that song again
That builds a castle in the sky
Where everything is shining
There are no tears to cry
Glistening waterfalls,
Golden rocks in the walls
Soft colorful carpets
Match stained glass windows
With balconies outside
To see the landscape below
Sing to me that song again
That builds a castle in the sky
With beautiful spiral staircases
A white baby grand piano
Playing this soft lullaby
Where there is no pain at all
Nothing but love fills every room
Fresh fruit shines on the counter
Tiled floor looks like the sea
The sweet scent of roses in the air
Please sing this lullaby to me
So I can close my eyes to calmly rest
On top of floating cushions in a dream
Of this magnificent castle in the sky
Heidi Sands
*Placed 8th in Contest: Building Castles in the sky
The invitations have been sent out, and the venue is sublime
A Castle in the country oh how I wish that it was mine
With sweeping staircases in the entrance hall
Crystal chandeliers, oh its perfect for my ball
The guests will arrive in their suits and dresses
Their masks are in place – I hope no one guesses
Dancing by candlelight it is so romantic
Not like at a discothèque so fast and so frantic
I’ve got the most wonderful caterers in the west
Their canapés are amazing, simply the best
Ice-cold champagne served in a crystal glass
It really is apt for a party of this class
It’s secret wedding party for when my beloved and I say ‘I do’
The only thing missing from my surprise party is YOU
07~20~14
Written for Rumor has It Contest ~ Sponsored by Judy Konos
~awarded 1st place~