Sumptuous sensual satin surroundings
Treasured plush, palatial, plushy pillows
Upholstered sofas, tasseled tapestries
Valued prized spoils of war
Wealthy coffers of the lucky highborn
mindless Frankenstein,
single-minded,
and her voracious, faithful dog
with a seventy-foot tail,
lifting carpets, sliding sofas,
slurping everything in sight,
with a bottomless pit for an appetite,
metal, insects, dead mice, coins,
fingernail clippings, fleas, spider brains -
It gurgles and wretches
over paper scraps from childish sketches,
embarrassing for a howling dog,
who wears his name, Hoover, in a stamp
on his bulging side,
a reverse Pandora's box of a canine,
pop him and you see all
your old friends again,
dreams long dead, come alive,
but he's roaring like a
dragon in a Godzilla audition,
and he's got you in his crosshairs,
with a Duranteater snout,
as Ms. Frankenstein squints,
looking for hints,
turning every stone,
so, you gotta keep movin.
she's got murder in her eye.
she won't bake you in pie.
you won't even die.
she's gonna put you in oblivion.
every bit of dirt is gone.
only, you, the dirt king,
emperor of disgust,
crown prince of crud,
evade her tenacity.
finally, sleeping soundly
on a chair's bottom side,
as she falls with a thud,
and Fido hides in the corner,
moaning.
For our seven kids we bought
last year for their Easter day
seven bunnies. Is that a lot?
Yes, it is. It’s brought great dismay.
Bunnies sure multiply. Oh my!
I could not believe my own eyes.
Although we are NOT in short supply,
we’re not a bunny enterprise!
Bunnies - bunnies are everywhere -
on our sofas and on the floor.
And one was in my underwear.
They are always behind each door.
They are even in our loo,
so what - oh what - can we do?
Should we sneak them into a zoo?
I dare not make a bunny stew.
Because our patience grows so thin,
we will need a great big van.
Then we’ll try to stuff them in
and drive far off. Well, that’s the plan.
We’ll find a field; then with a whiz
we’ll drive away while it’s still dark.
However did Noah keep all his
from running all over the Ark?
Pillows and cushions
On sofas and beds
Who needs more
Than one cushion
To rest weary heads
People who buy them
Seem to need more
To place on their chairs
And sometimes the floor
It's got to be
Almost a craze
Getting into bed
Is like getting out of a maze
People are different
With different tastes
Too many cushions
To me are a waste
I like comfort
Comfort you see
Is not pillows and cushions
Well maybe just three
Joanne jumps like a deranged jack rabbit, my grandma said.
I have seen her leap over sofas, cars, and a firetruck red.
Her legs are longer than your Dad’s or Uncle Ed.
She hops over skyscrapers, my confused grandma said.
The chairs have flowered backs
And all the sofas’ seats have stripes.
The carpet has a beige design
To match all styles and types.
The walls are painted in a shade
That’s neutral, like a balm.
The lighting’s soft and subtle
To keep those who’re waiting calm.
There is no music, no TV’s
To fill the space with sound,
Though cell phone reading’s in full swing,
I note as I look ‘round.
A women’s center waiting room,
So beautifully designed,
Was obviously chosen
With a female’s taste in mind.
There should be an idle Olympics,
one where you don't cycle or run,
and instead of diving, there's synchronised skiving
where teams of four get nothing done.
A training camp for doing little
would certainly pick up my vote,
full of amateur loafers sprawled out on the sofas
not caring about where's the remote.
Gold medals for staring at ceilings
that have needed repainting for years,
a silver for shirking, a bronze for not working
with an audience too idle to cheer.
No sports fitness coaches to nag you,
or physios to massage your joints,
starting gun's in the drawer
should you need it- what for?
As we all shrug, and say 'what's the point?'
I'll put my name down for team GB,
her indoors says 'you've nothing to prove,
you're already a winner' as she makes my dinner
and I can't be bothered to move.
The cabin is a lumber store of snores
Sawing and hacking while lying on our backs
Filling the day’s orders of dreams and chores
I’m the only one up this early
Alert to the prophecies
With checklists of nails and hammers in hand
The uncontained forest fires north of Superior
Have painted the blue skies over Torch Lake
Opaque with smoke
Twine in the pine trees buckling with birds
The sun does not rise
But burns like a candle
Hazy and orange sweeping the hills
Lighting and fanning the kindling
Of our curtains and walls lampshades and sofas
Our jack-o-lantern cabin
Set aglow
Burning down from the inside out
Its scowling face spitting flames
To the Azaleas wheat fields and faces of deer
Holes in my bucket as I run to the lake
Too late
Too late
Yawns and stretches what’s for breakfast?
Lost Property
If I collected all the lost keys –
the ones on rings, or chains,
that drop into drains,
unclaimed,
and squat there,
sequestered out of sight,
rusting behind bars,
far below blue sky,
in dank, stale beds,
just beyond light;
all the buttons, hanging by a thread,
that fall, unnoticed,
and ***-ends, and bits of cotton gone astray;
credit cards,
slipped slyly from shallow pockets;
lipstick, abandoned by a sink-side;
drawing pins and tacks that nestle in soft pile
poised to pounce,
and pierce the flesh of hand or foot
like nails,
evading hammers,
spiralling from empty shelves
dropped down loudly
to swearing curses;
under sofas, between cracks,
rogue staples worked free,
sending loose leaves
scattered to the wind;
If I could gather these,
place winking silver coins
beside the rest;
create small change;
collect them in a shiny tin;
then I might thread the needle,
mend the holes,
pay my debts,
unlock all the doors,
and let the world back in.
“Welcome to Kansas Sofa Mart. How are you today? Looking for anything in particular?”
They look like an odd couple. He is old and ugly; she is young and cute. Too cute.
Husband glares. Wife runs toward salesman, jumps on my lap, strokes my beard.
“You remind me of my daddy,” wife says. Husband looks damned mad.
I jump out the sofa, dumping wife onto the floor. This seems to please him.
(He may have the checkbook after all).
“Sofas,” she says. “We want a sofa” (Easy, peasy. They sell themselves).
“We have such a fine selection of sofas,” I tell them, giving them my winning smile.
I lead them to the sofa section. We have at least two hundred sofas.
She tries out all of them; he stands around, shaking his head, acting mad.
She loves color; he does not. She loves paisleys, plaids, polka dots, stripes.
He makes it clear it is black leather or nothing. Two hours later they choose nothing.
“Thank you for coming in,” I say. Trying to gulp up a bit of a smile.
(And wasting six hours of my day by not buying anything).
So many pennies,
lost in the system,
rejected, neglected,
dejected -
cursed by '99' price tags,
a charity box favourite,
nobody wants nor waits for.
So many forgotten pennies,
lost on the streets or behind our sofas,
yet pounds are never thrown away.
Both are round, so why do they only care for the pound?
Maybe its a matter of currency and colour,
or social structure, value and power.
No pound without pennies,
only empty piggy banks and jars,
but pound lovers take pennies for granted,
abuse us, belittle us, try to control us.
They get jealous of our shine,
try to manipulate us into a mouldy depression -
no wonder there are so many homeless pennies.
When did we stop being a priority,
descend to the bottom of society.
Just because we are misunderstood, do not fit in,
we are still round, but ignored by the system
a conflict of civilisation.
Imagine if all the pennies got together,
instead of being slaves to the pound?
Then surely we'd be stronger,
or would we just become pounds?
Has the penny dropped yet?
Sunday thoughts
Silent One
9 February 2020
Into wild grass of the green woods
my teddy bear wanted to go
Away from cuddle of sofas and pillows
a real forest he wanted to know.
Let's climb this tree full of big leaves
branches swaying, in mild soft breeze
Wish we both had feathers and wings,
to reach top... of the whispering trees.
9th May 2019
Theme pic #1 child with teddy bear climbing tree
Eve Roper's Free verse or Rhyme contest 8 lines
Placed first in winning list
Cats
We are looking
after a cat
it is white and yellowish.
I feed it and clean
the litter box.
The catwalks around mewing
and shedding hair
on sofas and beds.
I hate the ing cat it is
not friendly, sometimes the cat
go on the veranda on
the seventh floor
and it isn`t falling down.
I like a dog can bond with it
take it for a walk and they will not
hide in empty boxes
or in your cupboard.
The lady ‘cat owner
will come and pick up the moggy
her little wonder
today and it will not be missed.
I wish I lived in a commercial,
perfect people who all dance and sing,
perfect clothes that they wear
perfect smiles, perfect hair
perfect children, who'll eat anything.
The products they use are all perfect,
they do a good job every time,
no-one having to soak,
just a chisel-jawed bloke
with a squirty gun, cleaning the grime.
The holidays always seem sunny,
the cars have a glistening shine,
the sofas sat on are nigh twenty feet long
and not frayed, with some cat hairs, like mine.
Healthy oldies discussing their pensions
and taking out funeral plans,
I don't care about death, just maintaining my breath
and making it upstairs while I can.
If I bought everything that they offer,
maybe I'd then be a perfect bloke
but I've checked the amount
that's in my bank account
and I'd end up both perfect and broke.
Mischievous devils with Angels heart
That is how I once used to be
Hopping over fences and hedges
Swinging on branches of maple tree
Falling into puddles of Mud
Covering that mud all over me
Hiding those clothes under the bed
Thinking that mum might never see
Building stairway to the heavens
With my tiny building blocks
Drawing my dreams all over walls
Making puppets out of socks
Jumping on sofas climbing the doors
Turning the whole house into a wreck
Massaging mum's shoulders every night
As she said I was pain in her neck
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