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!"
my dogs are obsessive compulsive
they compartmentalize their activities
If they get a chicken stick
they run to their gray mattresses to chew it
they have established their own routines
one always leaves the last bite of food for his brother
one will not come into the front door unless my husband stands there
no amount of coaxing, begging, crying or pleading can change his mind
opinionated? certainly
regimented? definitely
self-absorbed? Absolutely
my dogs are obsessive compulsive
Whenever I sleep beside you
I wish I could touch you
Whenever I touch you, you go off in no time
I thought it would never be a crime
Whenever my heart burns for your enclosure
It brings instead an overexposure.
Whenever you are far my side
Little emmets retried
I wish they are far gone
As they make out my compulsorily learned turns
I wish the atmosphere is cool
My duvet should be a tool
Aren't it good enough a follow up
And sometimes; alarm's scrap of a hyssop
Found in fabrics designed to actively regulate temperature
Mattresses and bedding that feature Outlast pleasure
Perfect for couples as they absorb excess heat
Release it as you cool, store it
Thanks be to thee
What used to be shall stop to be
A great weird help
That would simply put a stop
To unwanted pregnancy
Hesitancy creating exigency
Though for the time being
And maintain common care keen
No more "hold me, I am cold"
It's now "shift, I am hot GOLD"
The man who hides no secrets
doesn’t whisper in corners
or polish his lies
before handing them out.
He drinks his coffee black,
says what he thinks,
and doesn’t care if the room goes quiet
after the words land.
People lean in when he talks.
Not because he’s loud,
but because he’s real.
Because there’s no performance.
No costume.
No carefully rehearsed bull crap.
His opinions are respected
because they come from scars,
from nights on dirty mattresses,
from watching friends disappear,
from surviving things that would fold
most men in half.
He doesn’t pretend to be wise.
He just tells the truth
and lets it stand there naked.
Some here hate him for it.
Some here fear him.
But everyone here listens.
Because in a world choking on lies,
an honest man
sounds like thunder.
The mule in Gaza
Slowly, on delicate legs, the last mule
in Gaza, pulling a cart carrying old
mattresses, broken chairs, and small
shrouds of children to a resting place
Pulling a kart is as easy as there is no
elevations in Gaza, nor is there
a succulent green field where to feed
Who feeds the mule? It can't live on
spent shells alone, who gives it water
to drink, can it be Hamas, who see in
the mule: the long dream of freedom
We all have dreams, the mule's easy
a green field of luscious green grass.
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 ...
Alas!
Love's dose reduced
venom produced
hissing mattresses, grass beds of dirty vipers...
This rink ranks right up there.
My power skates, slice each ring,
the scent of ice assails my nose.
Funny in the absence of air, I breathe.
It must be a dream. I don’t care.
The wind of Saturn blows through my hair.
No wind, you say, but I will believe
what this dream gifts to me. Can’t believe
I’ve made it this far. It’s not Mars -
tired of the heat and the bars.
Brightly lit, I see a disco ball in the mist.
I am young again. Giddy boys showing off.
I’m twirling like a pro until I fall
softly onto my fairytale bed,
the one twenty mattresses tall.
I woke up a bit bruised. Saturn
on Saturday night, had no idea,
a princess performed on her rings.
This rink ranks right up there.
Um, pardon me, the cowboy said, staring at a mouse.
He had walked into the wrong kind of cat house.
The cats giggled, twitching their whiskers and fur.
Got another one! The oldest feline said with a purr.
She loved it when humans came in all eager, but not pure.
Expecting something totally different for sure.
Free litter boxes and fru fru mattresses Miss Kitty said.
The cowboy turned to leave, and his face turned red.
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.
everything uses cruelty to exist
everything has claws barbs poison
glass that falls breaks becomes a threat
bodies that jump and turn to blood
like the junkie from the 701
or miss rivotril from 904
so long not being what we are
missing when life slipped
little hurting when and if it hurt
are you on vacation up there?
does the manager remain absent?
tell me if you also wait
something that velvets the obtuse angles
something that applies painless bandages
that bring back the white clouds
mattresses to stop voluntary falls
something that keeps scissors cuts butchers away
and the harsh noises
and the slanting glances
something that soothes human agony
to have conscience and body
mercilessly tied to each other
back in my day we kids were terrified of the green aliens
giant yellow eyes, long-reaching tentacles and pinching ways.
they sneaked up into our beds and curled around us in our sleep.
lying in wait under our mattresses for the exact right moment.
posters of the 1960’s were filled to the brim with these monsters.
i still see some of them in my sleep today, and I cringe a tiny bit.
resembling giant insects, they turned my dreams into nightmares.
to this day I expect one will grab my hand if it falls off the bed.
THE HOUSE OF COALITION
Poet: Grace kama ni
Politics is a dirty game, indoor game played,
In partitioned social house -A house of coalition,
Baptized merger, alliance, or better still – handshake,
The house of coalition, the kitchen of collision.
Political love plaque, adorned in wedding outfits,
From chiefs to the newborns, all matching for the clan,
Mattresses in the house see, under them piles of old clothes,
Perhaps for a rainy season,
The house of coalition, the kitchen of collision.
Everything in a haze, every -body in a rush
The sewing machines take not a nap, brush paints and repaints the walls,
Singers’ voices softened with fine honey, type writers squeak in protests,
The house of coalition, the kitchen of collision.
Listen to the manifesto, new wine in old wineskin,
Old enemies new dance, well-knit family new name,
And splendid rhetoric, soul search for voters,
Opposition in opposition,
The house of coalition, the kitchen of collision.
Game win, selective win,
But the house of coalition a hoax? The title deed missing?
Powers of brokers at play? “Wanjiku “played again?
The house of coalition, the kitchen of collision.
Mellowing muted miraculous memories,
mildly mannered, meticulously minted
manly mirrored, mostly mastered
messages, massaging misleading
Manson Mongoloid measures, minus
milktoast Mozart minuet membership
monotone manuscripts, manipulating
many manakin malignant mind melds.
Might mindful micro mineral mankindedness
marvel my molecular madness mediating
medicinal meditative metronome
mattresses manipulating magnum
malevolent maelstrom monstrosities?
Mother mayI?
I am not tempted to invite company
We have been taken hostage by a pony puppy
He chews up everything including mattresses.
How can we invite someone who likes dogs here?
He will sleep with them, and he is heavy.
He likes patting you in the face with his enormous paw.
How can we invite someone who dislikes dogs?
They would have to gingerly step over his leavings.
Shoes, pencils, bones, toys, dog chews, spatulas.
Buddy can open doors with his face
He has proven that often enough
He is a great excuse; we live quietly and happily.
My husband gets to watch his nine tv sets
And I get to write poetry and paint
And no one feels the need to come here.
Nirvana!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.