Niches Poems

Along the Way

The raindrops fall into the paper cup of tea
The teabag shrinks as if it could be my remark
Unlatch the green door to the childlike mystery
It’s possible again to enter that old park 
The busts and statues of the gods and greats
And shaded benches in the niches of the trees
There in the memory another alley waits
I haven’t walked on it to see where to it leads
Oh no! Those wobbly slabs I’ve walked before
The seagulls cry, the wind blows up the sand
Then comes the sound of the muted piano chords
I’ve no idea why I hear this again.

In a sea of time, where the waves of memories crash against forgotten cliffs

In a sea of time, where the waves of memories crash against forgotten cliffs,
There exist those rare beings, lost between the niches of destiny and the shadows of dreaming,
Never fully rooted in the fabric of society, never bound by the dreams of the night.
Souls that seem to have been born before the first accusation of time,
Before the heavens drew the curtain of indifference over their curious eyes,
These beings move like shadows of an unknown, unseen hope.
Their open acts, like the leaves of an eternal tree, anterior to time itself,
Seem to dance on the strings of an unheard melody, a song of eternity.
No one thinks to employ them, to catch them in the net of daily utility.
Their gaze melts the future, transforming it into a flowing river,
A reflection that cannot be caught, only felt in the depths of the heart.
They are the noblest, the most disquieting, echoes of an unknown universe.
Through their eyes, we see a time that does not obey the rules,
A world where hope and loss intertwine,
And in that labyrinth of thoughts, we discover the magical melancholy of existence.

A woman called house

House just turned one hundred years old 
wooden floors preserve foot-fossils of ancestors.
A fresh coat of paint cannot muffle yesterday's fireplace carolers.
Our stockings hang aside the stockings of ghosts.
House has a heart-a pulse-is layered in golden life tones.

I feel at ease in every honey smoked room 
and perfectly balanced on the uneven floors
I don't mind the infinite cobwebs 
that once were catchers of dream. 

Its three peaks and thirteen stairs
had significant meaning to past tenants.
It means nothing now for certain -but it doesn't matter.
I respect their strong marriage to the pastel past.

There's pockets and niches 
whos' purpose is long forgotten
Just like I will soon be. 
Discarded tin can in a wildflower field.

Winter evenings that I spend with house
are the warmest I've ever had.
I pray it feels the same about me...
hanging a stocking filled with endless gifts 
from a pale, blue collared memory.

mind's eye

not grounding mentality
in bounds of reality
vows turn unverifiable
truth becoming pliable
judgments unreliable
when the working of our brain 
leads toward being less sane

few usually agree
about structure of life's key
existence is that which is
beyond schemes in sales pitches
theories in various niches
worth being more selective
in forming of perspective

the self-image we maintain
was created by our brain
designed and fabricated
by what recall dictated
and ego then inflated
not altering that which be
only what mind thinks it sees

Stir

As though mixing the caffeine of deep desires and wishes
With the crystal water cognizance to make gold-brown niches
Where-from, yearnings, like fogs of fine frankincense, resurrect
Bedecked with the sweet-bitter-blend, filtered conscience effect

Settings get upset; there's an idle-ordeal order.
Foundations, once set, turn reflections on a broken mirror.
Kingdoms and empires are brought to below-ground level dust.
When stirs turn earthquakes, born out of rebellions of mistrust

Time's tumult; seasonal surge; waves of the ocean weather
Stir has set its soul within each fragile flying feather.
The friction set by the spiritual stir, like a sage
Goes on discovering and finding wisdom's newer page

Electric

At night in the prairies,
on the savanna,
the plow harrowed land,
or the scrub and brush
of sparse hunting grounds,
creatures are illumined
by a shimmering fear.
Trepidation ignites dark niches;
blood shines.

Fox and rabbit
watch in their sleep,
in their tunnels;
both sense each other
through a voltage of fur.

They are electric,
those that are hid by a shaded moonlight
are lit by a light that consumes itself.

Eyes are flashlights,
minds openly hunt or hole up,
all watch for the dire
glimmer of danger.

Closely concealed or at a distance
all follow the trace of a searching scent,
all share the body-heat of the chase,
or the quick pounce
of a breath-snatching find.

Devotion For An Ideal

The trumpet player is Wayne,
his passion for music drives him insane;
next door lives lonely Cassandra...
no, she isn't favorited by Charma!

Her days are spent in prayer...
oh, would a devoted Catholic nun refuse to hide her hair
that was curly and auburn?
Oh, it flames and waves like red leaves in late Autumn! 

Cassandra has dedicated her life to Christ...
reminding all that they would return to dust;
she likes to sing and very rarely recites the rosary,  
and singing she gathers crowds below her balcony!

Going to school I stop by to hear them,
such a gift is only given to some, ask Sam
who is the young pianist at the local church of martyrized Saint Stefan,
he praises them more than those saints in niches painted in pale brown!

Don't we resemble them in many undeniable ways,
expressing devotion for an ideal and deep love for the God of holiness?
Where do we find extraordinary individuals who sacrifice
all to get to Heaven through great strides keeping from the games of dice?

Neurotic Niches

Buried beneath all that's grey matters,
Convoluted in the circuitry ...
Lie the tiniest, little tidbits of
Distinction, to drive us to mystery.

They seem to protrude upon our psyche,
Like a reddened thumb, stuck to a hand.
While frolicking along the subconscious,
Looking to interrupt what is planned.

As pets go, these 'peeves' outlast,
Most other thoughts that come in play.
With an enduring quality beyond a
Visit ... with a preference to stay.

Don'T Look For Fleas On Me

DON'T LOOK FOR FLEAS ON ME  

Poet’s life is not at all easy. 
Nobody seems to need his poetry. 
For some people he is cheesy – 
An ape fallen from a tree. 

I decided not to be a poet. 
«Attaboy, better save your nerves! » 
Said my wife when I told her that. 
I gave her the respect she deserves. 

I realized: all women are bit..es, 
Sitting like worms in their niches. 

I do not want anyone's pity, 
I must do something on this earth. 
It has to be something pretty 
And something that really has worth. 

The winter turned me into a wreck. 
I must find a path or lose, 
Or put the rope around my neck. 
But it’s hard to sing with a noose. 

It’s the winter’s fatigue to blame. 
Nightingales start sing in spring. 
I haven’t that talent, nor a name. 
But roosters also can well sing. 

Nightingale as the singer is best. 
I’m the loser, let it be. 
I don’t want to sit in my nest. 
Do not look for fleas on me. 
07.05.2005,
February 2019

Not Held Captive

Shall I allow villainous viral bars to cage my soul?
"No!" I fervently reply. "Escape shall be my goal.
A prisoner for safety's sake, I may physically be,
but my soul is not held captive. It remains free."

My voice shall not be hushed, refusing to be silent.
It speaks of hope in a year that's been too violent.
When in need of soothing, my soul sings sad refrains,
comforting psalms in undertones to ease its pains. 

If my soul had wings, t'would soar to a mountain crest
then return to its resting place, deep inside my breast,
softly it shall whisper sanguine words I long to hear,
that echo throughout my heart, diffusing all my fear.

Near the end of this stressful year of twenty, twenty,
I give thanks for being well and blessed with plenty.
For no family or friends have I grieved in death's toll.
Darkness does not loom within the niches of my soul.

Empty

You pass by me like a faint cologne -
the scent barely grazing my senses.
I am as empty as a widow's soul.
Your ghostly caresses die like
a distant reflection.

You are an owl beating
your broken wings
into corner niches
that do not encumber my soul.
Feathers slowly drift to the ground like
Autumn leaves almost hovering
in mid-air.

You steal light from the white-hooded moon
as your vacuous demeanor dissolves
into nothingness in the thin air
of a peach-colored sky.

Freedom

Free will
 an
illusion.
Free, limited 
only.
Programmed 
to a path,
course of
actions
predetermined!
Endless choices,
genetically 
constrained.
Aggressive 
by nature,
or timid be.
Anything
in between. 
Choices constrained 
by nature.
Niches filled,
genetically so.
Preprogrammed, 
following 
the
genetic path
to
free will.

Sea Anemones Invaded the Cedars

In the spring rain,
the cedars bear alien fruit:
gelatinous growth
like orange sea anemones,
slimy creatures whose
slippery tendrils quiver
sporeful 
revolting and fascinating
life
fills all niches


4/22/2018

Torch Tribulation

With quite some ups and downs, twists and turns,
so illusionarily the mundane affairs fare,
racking everything up so far into thin air.
Traceless the same is my beloved, 
like a draught slipping through the door shoved,
only a wisp of fragrance, ethereally evocative, in dream of old lingering deep.
Meretriciousness submerges, merging my melancholiness into high wind,
without the slightest sightly serenity in retrospect seeming to seep.
So lonesome the small alcove, my innermost outpouring has only nihilism to find.

End of dream brings me no beginning of waking,
no fortuity for fancy fondness in the making.
Royal, royal roads of love far and near, just lurk out of my lap; 
Neat, neat niches for couples a dime a dozen, just lack of mine.
Freezing up instantly both dismal floccules citywide flying 
and full bosom of sentimentality seething out of my sap,
only wanders and wades constant contemplation in wooing want.

In Old California 9

The priest prolonged chants speaking somber tone.
Resplendent vestments white were cambric light,
embroidered gold with deep blue colors shown.
Man's mediator nigh in great God's sight.
Above, in gilded niches reredos' height,
wrought marble statues gave down sweet cast smiles.
Apse alter piece held candle flames all bright,
now throwing shades of light on floor's brown tiles.

Filled pews of people lined for chalice, Host,
then Jose, Dona Rose with daughter came.
Thus kneeling, waited priest and wafer toast.
To wait, receiving both in time the same.
At rails short stay, it wasn't she to blame.
For Arracho stood three near pews away.
Ave Maria! Eyes held same old flame.
Hands came together raised as though to pray.

• Short Niches Poems
• Famous Niches Poems
• Best Niches Poems
• Read Niches Poems
• Long Niches Poems
• Niches Quotes