Occupant Poems | Examples

There's a

House that sits somewhere in France
A chalet on a lake
It only has one occupant
He waits there for her sake 
He knows he may not ever see
A day when she'll be there
But still he picks her fresh bouquets,
There's lilacs everywhere!
He decorated boho style
Or tried to anyway 
His efforts were 'endearing'
I'm sure that's what she'd say 
And from the morning sunrise 
Straight through until sunset
He looks across the ocean
To see if she's come yet
The moment of a lifetime 
The day his dream comes true 
Will be the day his Bluebird lands
Her flight's long overdue

One Wonders

One wonders of the
flexibility of Time…
3 minutes hardly enough,
or the perfect egg -- 

Our times together
never seeming enough

and the parts away, painfully
protracted, occupant of my
every reason -- 

Sentiments, of course, can’t
be canned, bottled or frozen;
no shelf-life for the heart 
deprived – a mystery why I
even wear a watch?

never checked when with you

an eternity without you….

shabby chic doorway

the found map led me to an
asymmetrical doorway, created by an artesian
I wondered at the builder as I approached
the boards were placed diagonally
skillset many carpenters have not mastered
I knew now I was dealing with a professional
the knocker was a bit off-kilter, which amused me.
the brickwork looked a bit random also.
who created this wall? This door?
the paint was not fresh, there were bits of ivy.
A quaint shabby chic look.
I could not wait to meet the occupant.

All these things I could do

I wish I could scrumerge your  vista
hurt your emotional calibre
pique your errant sojourn
Run counter to your plans
Turn off your sunshine tap
Un mistletoe your golden spleen
accommodate you in a cave
the sole occupant
adamantly theoretical unconversationalist
to echo alone

Journeys

  A baseball glove lies on its back
  in a trunk of items
  once fresh and youthful
  now discarded for
  love and marriage
  perhaps a stroller
  whose blue-eyed
  blue-bootied
  occupant will
  himself!
  soon be
  the proud owner
  of his first glove

from the morning paper

From the morning papers


We read the woman, a former actress
who stole a prince and was hated by the kingdom
is a duchess selling jam and pottery
Her husband, the prince, looks bewildered 
We also notice the woman who was 
prime minister, for a very short time found 
crawling things on the carpet, given
its former occupant, this was not surprising
The woman with her short reign has 
written a book, in the hope of being regarded 
as something more than a misses Bean
laying her awkward talent bare in The USA
My view 




is that homegrown failures 
should not be exported or bought up like
water, to foreign investors
as rivers and lakes belong to the people 
to swim and drown without
interference from speculatants who 
muddy the water and turn it into sewers

Unsafe Bedroom

Into the damp room things creep.
So, in it no one should sleep,
Young girls asked to do so weep,
Ruth awake all night: scared heap,
Thrice did fearfully leap,
A better room: an open jeep.

Into the vileroeom snakes slid:
Two short black ones there soon hid!
You don't ask "what inmate did."
Won't you room farewell bid?

Rimbaud

The roads leading away
circle the distances
and seem to go nowhere. 
They seed the horizon 
with promises, disorganising
the senses and reason
until there is only a hole, 
a dark cave into
the interior.

Effigies stare out of the dark 
cloaked in symbols that can
only be deciphered by the soul.
This is the language
of the visionary, gifted seer 
of the modern. For this traveler
in the shadowlands
of the psyche, there is either 
transcendence or death,
mattering little if counted
as one more in history's legion
of the forgotten,
or a dazzling occupant 
of another realm. 

His words haunt,
coming agonizingly close 
to revelation, enchanting
the soul with the stolen
melodies of the sublime 
before falling silent
as homeless angels 
must do, a casualty 
of flesh and blood.

First Love

You are my first love
my eternal Father and husband
whose love for me is as endless
the depths of the blue holes
and will never fade from me
into the trade winds

You are my first love
my eternal provider and comforter
whose presence I find my joy and delight
and the supplier
of all my heart's desires
whose lips are seasoned with grace

You are my first love
my eternal lover and king
always wooing me into your arms
the only occupant
of the throne in my heart
unwilling to settle for
being the footstool

You are my first love
my eternal protector and healer
who is the restorer
of my strength
the house of refuge
from my enemies
and the lifeguard from
my sea of inequities

Tales of the Bone

Skull where is your brain,
where inside this abandoned cave is your mind?
Did God leave you like this
your jaw open in that crazy grin
the wind echoing under your cracked dome?

There are fields of skulls, walls made of skulls
catacombs just for skulls
and still nobody has found you.
DNA and carbon dating may tell us
when you were
but your teeth chatter no tales now.

I look upon the scattered scaffolding
and wonder if your house
is now built high in a boneless heaven,
and if that house has an occupant -
a skull of starlight?

Yet are we not made of stardust even now
and are we waiting with baited breath
to depart these double barreled eye sockets
like bullets from a smoking bone-handled gun?

And will we enter the light
naked as hermit crabs into another shell
or must we lay here
slack-jawed and grimacing
blind even to the sky within us?

Snowing Inside-Minneapolis 2022

cigarette falling, snow-
ing in-
side  the bronco,
buck-

ing ash  two-digit scissors
reach-
ing like tongs

passenger’s eyes pop

driver
retrieves, revels, masters

the smoke; a joke
to the occupant

occupational hazard:
timing of
timber

window ajar; a trail
of chimney smoke

a cautionary tale:
don’t make my insides jiggle
jingle bells are merrily ringing
can’t help myself

previously, at the airport
man flies
off his luggage seat
goes splat in the turkey line
his phone’s fly-
ing

and i wonder why
i’m the only one
giggling

i leave the state in newfallen snow,
splash-
down on the tarmac
in Georgia

Nov 2022

Satanology 7 Satan and Places

As damned territorial as lion,
On this, kind of unflinching Iron.
Not just on a single occasion 
Mention made of his sure location…

Ex-Occupant of Lord God’s Heaven
After acting worse than a Raven;
From it flushed out and he found Earth
And there had been before Creative Birth.

No regrets, though, over Expulsion
On Earth ‘A Flier’ in propulsion 
The same chaining for Christ‘s Temptation 
Christ muteness on this “Attestation.’’  
On Earth, seeker of crowd for snares,
A man there for damage, poor repairs 
Also the Non-Trodden Wilderness 
Unhappily yielding wildness 

Lot after Sodom, Xenophobia 
That could just suppress Claustrophobia, 
So, that Daughter might sleep with Dad
And The Hapless Old Guy gives a Lad…

There Are No Bands In Death

There are no bands in death
They are in various states
Lifeless in varied postures
Brought for different reasons
Some palsy and age took their toll
Others victims of premature  machinations
Many fell from jealous causatives
A lot from envious enemies
Modest number in the line of duty
Protecting the sanctity of fatherland
Oh yes the occupant of this space:
He was the community’s tallest
His height wrestled and intimated iroko trees…
Now vanity
This lady…
I remember 
Had a voice sweeter than a Nightingale
Her shrill high pitched soprano
Bordered on the corridors of falsettos
Cracked glasses unending
Vanity upon vanity
There are no bands in death
Bones litter  a grave’s mouth
As cleaved and cut wood upon the earth
Philosophical quandary:
Point of no return
Cessation of cessations
‘Fallacy of misplaced concreteness’
An end to spectrum of living
To the living the dead never die:
They are always with us
In songs, stories and legacies
They may fly away never to be seen
Only on JUDGEMENT DAY
The rest is for us to live right
Walking the old paths wherein our Fathers walked
For there are no bands in death.

Grey Shade

I'm not the darker shade 
Or the brighter one to be sure.
I'm simply grey , to which I dedicate
The polaroid of my emotions.
My notions often reflect the hue
I change into with the change of the mood,
While the peace of mind becomes a cue
For the incoming storm to be calmed by.
The shade turns darker even in the light,
Whereas , sometimes seen as bright in dark
And vice versa ,happens every passing night
Betraying any satisfaction to revere.
The grey as of now sums up my mind,
Being an occupant of both the boats 
There reside insecurities ,I must remind
But on a much calmer surface I stand now

A Man Hunger Has Been Kicking

He is an occupant of a room damp
And dependent on a rejected lamp:
The worst so far in their camp …

A room often not illuminated
But in it plants still germinated,
Selecting peeping spots in a cemented floor,
Daringly doing so back to the room’s door.

The room’s nearest neighbor a smelly dump,
To many microbes their Releasing Pump
And, sure, the cause of The Man’s mumps 
And as possibly his torturing lumps: 
A man Hunger has been kicking his rump
And readying for a final slump …

But wither did The Man this foulness pick
And could Hunger make one licked plates still lick?

Nothing like an answer from Interviewed Nick
And rather a rude one from Starving Dick.

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