Rooms Poems

THE TINY TRIAGE EXAM ROOMS

I'M TRANSPORTED BY MEDICAL TRANSPORTATION AMBULANCE I'M ALWAYS AFRAID SUFFERING SEVERE PANIC DISORDER I TRY AND FOCUS MY MIND HURT MY EYES ARE SWOLLEN PANTING PANIC ATTACKS AGAIN THE NURSES ARE KIND RIGHT AWAY I ASK FOR CHAMPLAIN SERVICES MY HEAD IS IN SO MUCH PAIN ANXIETY SINKS IN THE ROOMS ARE SO SMALL ONLY

Rooms are Always Empty

Your shoes are still by the door.
I stepped around them this morning
like stepping around a memory
that doesn’t want to go.

The hallway light
flickers now.
It didn’t used to.

I thought maybe
your voice would echo
if I left the door open long enough,
but the house
only hums,
like it’s trying to forget
you ever lived here.

I found your notebook.
The pages were still warm,
some

About This Place

searching empty rooms ~

what do my tender hopes seek

now that I am all moved out

~ ~ mattered - not oblique ~ ~

sadly - whole house seems aloof

even walls just feel the roof

The Rooms he no longer Enters

His soul portrays the eyes of a wolf,
lost without his pack - banished from his territory. 

In his deceptive demeanour,
hiding his depressive state - he howls at the moon.

An outcast unable to dream,
he adorns a false smile at sunrise,
as he's still scarred from
the house he once built - brick by brick.
Where walls of lullabies,
were created

Everyone sang of your beauty, in words and poems, through rooms full of murmurs

Everyone sang of your beauty, in words and poems, through rooms full of murmurs,
but you only heard my silence, where words needed no sound.
Everyone longed to see you, like darkness chasing the moon across the sky,
but you gave me the first light, a vision like a forgotten dream reborn.
Since you began to smile gently, with

Tears in Vacant Rooms

Written: March 05, 2025 

         ***********************

As the final petal droops
upon quivering leaves,
while the soul begins to decay
akin to the evening lights 
fading into a coffin.
Tears flow quietly across vacant rooms,
sheltered in the hidden retreat, 
of a hapless fool folly.
Aged and forsaken, an ancient blade lies 
on a ragged

In dark rooms where silence flows like a river of ink

In dark rooms where silence flows like a river of ink,
I sit alone, wrapped in the solitude of Monday mornings,
While presidents speak of honor, culture, and dedication,
And their words are echoes lost in the vastness of a gray sky.
Sadness weighs on my soul like a shadow stretching over an empty field,
My manliness suffocates me, stripping

Light

Sometimes I need light.
Sometimes we,  
sometimes everyone needs light.
In the dark and the damp of rooms,
of feelings, of thoughts
and of our lives that flow,
we need light from the window,
from the open door, from the open spaces
under the open skies,
and then we need some lights to glow,
but from where, when or whether
it will come or

Nothing really changes in an airport

Have you ever thought about the permanence of airports?
Flights dock and depart.
The people flow in and out,
ever-changing,
a whirl of color and language and time.
But not the concrete.
Not the tile.
The cornerstones always remain.
Decades of stories,
manifold fears and dreams,
held between each molecule.
Here we are timeless.
Existence escapes the construct
of seconds that parade forward.
In an airport, you simply are.

Trading Rooms

2 weeks x 2

future. that’s what I put in notes 
to remind myself how often 
I’ll be able to see her and pretend
I’m easy to find, same 
as when we were kids trading rooms

on a regular basis, 
once fear’s been eclipsed by new
and parallel taxation habits, 
once we’ve forgotten how it wasn’t 
as easy as

The sunsets are red; now Ottowa will shed!

Monday is coming..I can taste the dread.! a sacrifical
Summit i see ahead.' The condemed has long snorted
A magical power.? Dusty corners await now a'quiver to 
Devour' aquaintances are many, and friends will be few.'
Times and a half times, once upon a time! (you were new)
You've consulted the augeries, and laid out the bones
Burned up the

In the quiet rooms of the unseen

In the quiet rooms of the unseen,
Where shadows dance with ancient secrets,
A choreography of reality is woven mysteriously,
Created by unseen hands, the puppeteers of the world,
Threads of truth and illusion, like stars in the night sky.
There, in a hidden sanctuary in Washington,
Unknown shadows draw the contours of existence,
Not just events, but their mystical essence,
Shaping the

Rooms to go

O Monami! Fiancé these days!
They forgot to pick wrought iron
In their unsung Mays!

In seasons, they sprinkled
In salts they tried,
In their secret recipes
Even my Clover died!

PS. It is still poetry!

In the universe of the two rooms, she gathers her dreams between her palms

In the universe of the two rooms, she gathers her dreams between her palms,
She lets her fired hair descend upon the folds of our fleeting time.
"It's the end," she articulates with a voice sipping from the last silences,
Through the mirror in which we have often been born and died together.
I watch as she spreads the

Green Rooms

Last acts have already been performed.
Death is on stage,
it has already taken several encores -
now the audience is leaving.

We actors are departing also,
the Light has come,
each player is taking a path of their own,
to a different idea of heaven.

For there are many ways to write a script,
and many more theater Houses
in our Fathers Kingdom.

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