Papered Poems | Examples

Christmas Eve Performance

Three armed teens 
performed a mugging on Christmas eve.
Their target 2A'D them
curing them of their social disease.

By next morning they set up a go fund me 
for the dead and wounded thieves.
Their target was charged in the second degree.

When I was a teen, 
we banged on doors and toilet papered trees...
and felt somewhat guilty.

Tears of Love

This life of joy and sorrow, weighs heavy on a fragile soul.
Waiting for that tomorrow, and broken hearts being made whole.

Like the leaves of papered gold, promises scattered on the ground.
Dreams we have are bought and sold, to corporate prisons we are bound.

Time tells if mercy we'll see, like the stars shining from above.
A light that will set us free, and from heaven rain tears of love!

Opulence

We saw some hieroglyphics
And some beaded Native art,
Some instruments of music
With their coolness off the chart;

The Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit
And some armor from the past,
All admired and enjoyed although
We zipped through kind of fast.

The only place we lingered was
Where varied rooms were staged
Showing how the wealthy lived,
Our grandson totally engaged.

The lighting dim, the papered walls,
The opulent décor
Elicited reactions
We had not quite seen before.

Such lavish furnishings, unlike
The homes that I have known
Make me wonder how he’ll decorate
A home when it’s his own.

Layers of Life

Walking through the door of my childhood home
brought back tsunami of wisdom overture.
Tastes and colours in décor change with culture;
varied pallet of history in lands roam’.

My children had turned out to be a challenge
as they had early on displayed my talent
for examining and questioning latent
defects papered over; now seeking balance.

We’d a small, intimate wedding reception.
The wallpaper in the lounge is instantly 
recognisable (like kin related distantly),
from the photos. No inkling of deception.

My parents had asked this sweet sixteen to voice
her preference for bedroom to replace staid
pattern reminiscent of a fabric plaid.
But they had vetoed black and white Op Art choice. 

The celebrations of the many milestones, 
spanning the blessed years of three generations
firmly recorded in the decorations;
layers of peeling wallpaper to bare bones.

A Place Not Meant To Be: 09

#9:  Days of Paper Roses

Do the numbers--dogs don't count--just survives!
Then everything, be as close enough, still,
of this and that, thoughts begin and end, thrives,
truth betold, none were measured boundless will.
There's a bold statement, typed on front pages,
rolled off the presses, just to impress us,
splashed inklings midst papered, of such phrases,
... rolled and impressed, settles the dust--minus.
High-topped towers, the light of day, shadows,
thought-filled days, wages paid by subscribers,
of The Times, Gazettes, or Tribune Heralds,
flighters, fighters, there too were paid--writers.
Dawn paper rolls, notepads ... night closes,
they blossomed they did like rows of roses.

Postage Due

Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.

A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
  
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.

Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".

A New Heart a New Dawn -

A New  HEART A NEW DAWN 
a new heart a new Dawn
 Precious child 
Of a living God
 Rise up behold His love
 We are worthy in honor
 We are more 
Than just His friend
 We are His children
 And He is Our Father
 In heaven 
A New heart
A new Dawn 
Awaken beloved in our Father's new love 
For beautiful we are,
 Perfectly loved 
Chosen love speak longevity of life 
Are beating hearts 
So by His ways means we are new 
We are shaped in His image 
We're renewed 
As we seek we have you seek
 His agape love
 Each and every breath we take is fragrant
 By Jesus blood
 We are His children renewed 
In His Glory hearts 
 Impart
In paged Holy Grail partridge papered page a book
 In His story In our HEARTS 
 New Dawn, Beloved 
A new heart a new Dawn

9/5/2023
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©

Anti-Poem - Dry Ice and Cologne

a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils 
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms

little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne 
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet 
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne

The Coronation of Autumn

leaves of papered gold
a robe for the autumn king...
for a crown the stars

date: 9/8/22
(used 'syllable counter' website)

At the End of the Tour

At the End of the Tour
David J Walker

We would never have survived the poverty 
Of the poets poetry 

Nor the selling of souls for papered wealth
The death and rebirth and growth 
from distant worlds 

Abandoning the learned language of
Specific lovers and the invention of
Nuances waisted on foreign ears

Still

I loved you like the duty of a soldier
On foreign soil

I loved you with limited time intimidated
By the clock I forgot to wind

I loved you because the air you breathed
Tasted of the words of your foreign tongue

I loved you somehow knowing 
The flag I was baring 

Must be folded and put away 
At the end of the tour 

I loved you until our vehicle
Ran out of gas

And we both walked home 
	Alone
In different directions

Pride of Place - Piano

Four-legged guard patrols the papered wall,
Stood by whispering windowpane wind drawls
She is grand, grandiose hardwood keys small
And all across the lounge room rug, she sprawls.
Four-legged guard waltzes to the evening ball.
She dances in her homestead in A minor calls,
The acoustic pride echoes bold and tall
And the chorus chords charms the hall.

On Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve




    The fireplace glows, metallic papered
    covered gifts await.
    Our loving relatives, coming in, through
    our sparkling, lighted gate!


                   12/8/2021

What Have I Left

Again, and again
Lips stained by death
Uttering words—dead, dying, gone forever
Incurably cast to eternal rest

Spoken in whispers
Words drenched in tears
Besieged within antiseptic walls
The grim shadow of Reaper again appears

Pandemonium unfettered
Unmasked villains cloaked in watery layers
An ominous choir 
Dancing with ruthless, politicians and liars

A factitious malady
Once bound by walls of glass
Death’s sting unleashed  
Fearlessly pilfering one’s breath last

Loved ones menaced
Peers devoured
Papered masks hiding hopeless lies
How many must die in our darkest hours

From bended knee
To a deadpan god I weep
Cowering behind the inequity of man
What you have sowed, you shall now reap

Fists clinched set before trembling lips 
Eyes strained by everlasting mist
Spewing words not fit for a god
Questioning aloud, did you ever exist

God of mine, unveil the truth 
Ere another dies
Lover, friend or innocent youth
Forbid dear Abba, that it be I

Sorrow in the Land of Desolation
Too often my lips stained by Death
Friends, family…and God now gone
Tell me please, what have I left?

A Philosophic Age

The philosophy of philosophy
is a philosophic probe
not well lubed and often painful
as the followers grow old
crumbled bits of papered truth
lost within their souls
begging for a second chance
to somehow be made whole.
A truth that was a truth
but isn’t anymore
how did it go from iron clad
to whispered doubts galore
how did a bottled letter
ever reach its barren shore
to tell each foaming grain of sand
it’s philosophical no more

John G. Lawless
©10/27/2021

Alone Living In a Cardboard Box Home-

Lofty sorts tenement;
Residential entitlements;
Homeward bound ;
Lost in town,
Logistics Irving bound;
 Summers call;
Legitimate hall;
Tournament crawl;
No mortgage though;
No rent termites eating bossa wood;
Lying on rough wet papered floor;
a homeless man lives alone and a cardboard boxed home! 


8/30/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021

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