In purpose to uplift the spirit
I got up and said hey ho
I thought, if you could hear it
You’d likely say, hello
I heard your muffled cough
Through the ajar kitchen door
I dashed to see you, love
I passed the corridor
I popped into the sitting room
And checked the bedroom too
I smelled no Gatineau perfume
I saw no sign of you
It wasn’t a trick of tired mind
I’ve heard your cough, I swear
But you were out of sight
Just when I thought you’re there
Inside a room, or maybe
Out in the pretty wild
My garden on the balcony
It could’ve made you smile.
The opaline morning milky skies
I can’t hear the birds
They have flown without goodbyes
To the better world
Outside it’s very quiet
Just like by remote
Sounds come when off I stride
Up and down the road
With a bag full I return
From the morning gloom
I’m a guest here on my own
In the sitting room
Would you come to visit me
Even as a vision?
Shall we drink the airy tea
I need your decision
Come in any shape or form
Come like self-deceit
You’re most welcome, it’s your home
Yours is the best seat.
I woke this morning
to the thick breath of heat,
a humid Sunday rising slow as regret.
The tulip tree leaves hung there,
backlit like stained glass in a forgotten chapel,
and beneath the sagging feeder,
a ragged pile of feathers—gray, white, brown—
strewn across the grass,
as though something holy had been torn apart
in the night.
Fox, coyote, hawk—
it hardly matters.
Something lived, and something else lived longer.
I stood there,
thinking how easy it is to mistake hunger for cruelty,
but the air was already moving on,
taking the story with it.
From the television in the sitting room,
the voice of a tired reporter cracks
over the flash flooding on the Guadalupe,
bodies pulled from the brown water,
while the ban on transgenders from the military takes hold,
quiet as a closing door.
-----------------------------
Note: Another poem reflecting James Wright's style
Your bedroom with a garden view
Includes a view to the field
Here we are, looking through
Leaning on the window sill
It’s calm, the early dusk hour
My favorite time has come
I sense the smell of every flower
I breathe the tune you hum
Down in the sitting room
Comes Pippa to lick your face
She’s jealous, you say, and the fume
Of your blackberry vape fills the space
Then our images blur, the sound worsens,
Interrupts, and the call fails
We're too good for the real persons
Just two characters of a tale
It’s over now, all of a sudden
I can’t bother less, you’d say
I’m promised another garden
See you sometime, one day
I stood at the edge of the universe,
cradling a heart wrapped in twinkling lights,
an ornament for a tree
that never adorned my sitting room.
“What a quirky thing, this love,” I thought,
as you strode in, a meteor in a suit,
sprinkling stardust on my insecurities.
“You’re a masterpiece, even in progress,”
you said, while I toyed with tossing it all out -
how to love someone
who stumbles over his heart
while tying his shoelaces.
But your smile halts the universe,
a speed bump on this cosmic highway,
drawing me back,
sipping the absurdity
of loving you while juggling shadows.
So, I didn’t discard it.
I placed it beneath my pillow,
a tangled reminder that even as doubt enfolds,
this messy web of love is worth unraveling,
that perhaps in loving you, the gap
between who I am and who I’m becoming
might close.
The CRUNCHING of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten the house
The SWISH of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming
My partner and I were never prepared,
for what the specialist doctor said,
We hoped the chemo worked but dread,
to tell you that the cancer spread,
Our palative nurse tried to dull the pain,
But time after time it was bad news again,
I just had enough of the pain being raw,
My impulse was to punch the sitting room door,
I needed some space to digest the bad news,
My love of my life I was soon to lose,
How do you deal with such a dialema,
Love will grow strong even when not together.
They carried on discreetly
pretending not to care
then on the day of the wedding
none of the family were there
mum cried in the kitchen
the news was much to bear
dad had lost his temper
his choice words hung in the air
the household was in crisis
with lots of opinions to share
the summit in the sitting room
agreed it wasn't fair
"nothing good will come of this"
said grand-dad from his chair,
while grandma simply said it was,
"a hole in the wall affair".
I read The Raven in its entirety,
I must admit it's kind of creepy.
If some big ol' bird with devil eyes
Came tap tap tapping to my sitting room,
I'd be leave leave leaving for the refuge
Of my mother's house.
Mother's house is a house of safety,
And if that bird dared to follow
It would bow and say "Milady,"
And nevermore forget it's place~
'Cause Mom don't brook no nonsense
From neither man nor beast!
Flower gardens in my neighborhood in full bloom
Lovely flowers freshened by the summer rain
Daisies, asters, hot poker with their scarlet plume
Flower gardens in my neighborhood in full bloom
All equally lovely in a vase in my sitting room
It is wonderful to have cut flowers once again
Flower gardens in my neighborhood in full bloom
Lovely flowers freshened by the summer rain.
Written June 10, 2022
How large the dandelion bloom
in her neglected garden.
Her wizened face begs pardon
for the dust-encrusted sitting room.
Still, so much better than her tomb
to visit long after life has hardened.
Image: Pixabay
All the way from my sitting room
I can hear my calico talking on Zoom,
Seems she’s looking for someone to exhume
Remains of a ratty old, worn-out broom.
I buried it because it smelled like a tomb,
Not realizing it was to her “eau de parfum.”
In her present state of utter, abject gloom,
She is now threatening me, I presume,
For I distinctly hear her saying, “Kaboom!”
A mushroom cloud could suddenly loom
It saddens me deeply this could mean doom,
If I don’t do something she’ll continue to fume.
If you have a cat, one with a nom de plume
Be careful to eavesdrop from your sitting room
And if you hear the dreaded word “Kaboom,”
Hurry, right then; go and shut off the Zoom!
FIRST PLACE WINNER
written December 3, 2021
especially for "'Z' - New or Old" poetry contest
sponsored by Constance La France
A quiet spot in the house,
not frequented by visitors,
set aside, distant, aloof
solitary refuge, retreat,
escape, safe haven, sanctuary
from life trials and tribulations;
points of memory, subtle laughter,
remembered heartache and tears,
in picture frames, photographs, and reading books,
old school technology with paper, ink, and pen
scratchings of time and place,
etchings recovered and erased;
windows clean and wide,
open view portrait, vignette, a snapshot
to the world outside
visionary images of changes of the seasons
spring buds, blossoms and blooms
summer gardens exuberant with living visions
autumn color cavalcades
glistening thru the shade
warm sun lilting in reflective passage,
aging armchair warrior greeting time as it passes
clinging to the memories revived
within my sitting room.
When they carry me out of here, they’ll first have to take me from my bedroom to my sitting room, squeezing through the narrow hallway connecting the two, in order to then re-open the in-ward swinging door through which they entered my apartment. They’ll then have access to the stairway descending to the ground floor exit and be able to angle me down and bear me to the outside world, never to return again. But in the brief time they’ll have stood in my sitting room, they will likely have judged it to be a place “of cleanliness and good order,” with everything in its place, reminiscent of a furniture store show room. I hope they’ll also have taken notice of the photo of my smiling children on the end table by my chair. Given the sterility of all the rest, it is the only tangible evidence that a life ever actually occupied that room other than to keep it tidy. Whoever packs up that photo when they clear out my things had better treat it with reverence and respect; I know they loved me.
When I 'm small, I ask my mother
Why do flowers blossom
This is what my mother says
Flowers blossom
To bring beauty to the world
To bring admirations to the children
To bring decorations to the hair
To bring a gift to the vase
To bring fragrance to the sitting-room
To bring grandeur to the stage
To bring lovers together
To bring warmth to the sick
To bring remembrance to the death
To give birth to a seed or a fruit
And you're like a flower
Blossoming to bring happiness and hope
To the family
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