Upholstered Poems | Examples

S T U V W

Sumptuous sensual satin surroundings
Treasured plush, palatial, plushy pillows
Upholstered sofas, tasseled tapestries
Valued prized spoils of war
Wealthy coffers of the lucky highborn

Foundations

The house I wrote in
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.
The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
of a younger blood,
flood me
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.
Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now I am upholstered, a place
roomy enough
for returning younger words,
their brain dizzying songs.
revisiting, unearthed,
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving
from abandoned living-spaces,
from the forgotten foundations
of elsewhere.

Her Last Chair

A breathing weight pushes flesh
into fabric and wood.
A cellular heat melds, sinks inward.
Fibrous miasmas knit cloth and foam
to a ligamentous persona.

Nightly, less of her
is peeled away to be packed
between sheets.

Her last chair takes upon it
a deeper imprint then her body alone.
It has folded her inward into hollows,
each one a pool of bodily memories.

This evening the chair has the shape of a lover
He has two more legs, but his arms
still thrill in a comforting way.

Together they are both tucked into
one more upholstered dream.

Younger Rooms

The house I wrote this poem in 
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.  

The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
these vernal chimes of a younger blood,
flood me now, 
now in my narrow redoubt,
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.

Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now look at me.
I am upholstered, a place 
roomy enough for a younger poem,
for returning to younger words,
finding ghosts in the spaces between them,
breathing through vowels,
with their open lungs,
their brain dizzying songs.
Revisiting

underlining, unearthing 
blind roots, simple cyclic thoughts
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving 
from freshly abandoned living-spaces
places excavated 
from under the forgotten foundations 
of elsewhere.

The Message- Come

The train was like a long caravan chug, chugging along,
and my destination was far, and in a place quite remote;
I was tired and weary but I knew I had to be strong.
weeping, I fell upon the upholstered seat hugging my coat;
I wept like the ocean had lost its cork and I may soon float.

______________________________________
November 28, 2019

Poetry/Rhyme/The Message-COME
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1203-882-02
All Rights Reserved.  Written under Pseudonym.

Rachmaninoff Plays Rachmaninoff

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uqZhnqHMAg


The orchestra strains to be symphonic --- a bee in a tin box.
Cigar smoke thunders, molecules of sound wilt
only to be dialed up through brass lungs.
The combo is quaintly upholstered, a classic sports car
driven by Disney. Outmoded refrains gurgle.
We see the obsolete road ahead, feel the bumps,
the lack of shock absorbers.

The third piano concerto, the romance of the exile.
1940 is pulled from under its Perspex lid, served up
as fresh Prosciutto di Parma consumed in a diner
long derailed.
The mind warps eras, Michelangelo has gone Hollywood,
the 'Creation' sketched on a paper napkin.

Last notes. 
Hands too large for tuxedoed minds, stamp
like rhapsodic elephants.
Percussive fingers slam-dunk ivory tusked themes,
Russian bells quake California.
Rolling vespers outgrowing each decade,
times now locked in a recovery CD millimeters thin.


~~~


https://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/10/sergei-rachmaninoff-car-guy-aero-investor/

Midsummer Night

Abstract algorithm. Brooding distraction, 
cleverly cloaked in digital fleece.
Enigma encoded. Like so many fireflies,
Hastening gauntly heavenward.
Juniper immolation.
Ides jaundiced light.
Kinetic kites, luminescent in the night. 
Milky Way mighty, northward pointing, 
Occidental wind opens, plumes rising.
Quickened quiet shroud.
Revelation.
Reincarnate.
Souls thin the veil.
Under the upholstered vault,
 xylem-charred waste,
Drawn to the yawning zodiac.

Toad

Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold 
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.

Sex and Drugs

Upholstered flesh is wetted with a single stroke
Thumbs clasp and rotate
Ribs click with an enhanced inhalation
Consequences of a little death

Tissues consume bloat
Drain and wither
Free radicals creep into closed eyes
Flecks are swept like stars of dust
Behind shutters wide pupils flex

A peated tongue tenses
An oesophagus glows engorged
Sweet vanilla lingers 
Mingled with formaldehyde 
There is no tomorrow
The LED red says twelve zero one

Bulbs have soft rainbow halos
In a blur of blue grey
Addled thoughts vacate for one voice
Plasma releases its cargo of cyanide
Knots loosen
A cranium rolls and a crow sings

Dishevelled brows descend
A skeleton is exposed
Cheeks rise
An alternate being rises

A flat metallic switch is weighted
And poisons are held inside
A marigold illumination fades
And Black edges are defined
A pulse reverberates in a temple
A decision is made 
Carcinogens are pushed
A door is fired a quarter circle
And rubber echoes on glass

Time for round two

Winter's End

soon we shall all be free
of all upholstered costumes 
and all manners of miners' boots
that infect us with winter edema
and puff us up like flu troubled ostrich
to become angels again
In our cute adidas spikes .

The Bedbugs Come To Call

The Bedbugs Come To Call 
  
By Elton Camp

All my life I’ve heard of this pest
In filthy houses they come to nest

Bed bugs you will never detect
Where people have self-respect

But now we find that is not true
Several things we may come to rue

First of all, we never can tell
Who was before us in the hotel

We must take the greatest care
Bed bugs can be most anywhere

On spreads or sheets they like to hide
On upholstered chairs they’ve been spied

Maid brings them on the housekeeping cart
Or aboard the luggage carrier they may dart

So when we leave the Marriott
Sneaky hitchhikers we’ve got

In the dressing room of the clothing store
Must never lay our garments on the floor

Use the hook on the wall
Coat, clothes, purse and all

In doctor’s waiting room never dare
Sit on cloth cushioned couch or chair

If we buy from any yard sale
Wash the garment without fail

Use water hot as can be
To help stay bed bug free

Don’t think it can’t happen to you
It may, despite all you try to do 

But even if the pests we acquire
They cause no real illness dire

So try to have a restful night
Just don’t let the bed bugs bite

Sexy - Or Whatever Turns You On

 His:-    "I like a little lady who
is round enough to squeeze;
who has a soft capacity,
alluringly, to please.
And coming with a lustrous smile,
a tempting cunning wheeze,
she has this hint of wickedness.
Oh what a naughty tease!"

Hers:-   "I like a man upholstered well,
maturing like a wine,
who treats a lady properly,
when taken out to dine.
Who holds her hand and squeezes it,
both tender and divine.
Then, if he’s just a little rich ...
Well that, by me, is fine!"

~

SEXY! Poetry Contest by Charles Clive for nette onclaud.

Gauguin's Chair

Candle lit quarters..
bearing colorful carpet...
and his wooden chair.
·
With a curved backrest, 
of somber reddish-brown wood;
upholstered green straw.
·
and in his absence...
a lit candle takes his place:
...two modern novels.
·
Vincent paint’s his muse,
in consistent loneliness...
...waiting for Gauguin.






_________________________________
For Abe's Van Goh's of Van Gogh contest
the Painting is "Gauguin’s Chair"

Cloverleaf Drive

He was
crying
and wouldn’t take dinner,

so,
huddled off and
to the side,
the three of us we stop
and watch kids 
two-hand pitching
over gravel,

then walk on.
This old block -
the architecture
is not the same…

- was this it? 
where we fumbled
in her V-dub,
laugh-drunk,
unworried 
about
upholstered mud
or taxes? 
this where we 
played
and got late
for dinner?… -

by the teal house,
I hear young numb knuckles
scrape around 
for warmth 
or wisdom.

It is too dark.
My hip hurts.
I decide we three should turn back.

On the way home,
I thought I saw an old friend
by streetlight.

Daydreaming

Big red buckets and yellow elephants
Standing on mice wearing pink flared pants
Oil filled puddles of many rainbow hews
And crocodile upholstered chapel pews

Armies of platform shoe wearing dogs
Wearing wigs made from living frogs
Thick carpets made of real living fur
That when walked on emits a soft purr

Deep swimming pools of strawberry jelly
Hand painted sandals by Botticelli
Gold plated gloves and silver shoes
Invisible paper for reading the news

Custard foot spas and florescent trees
Serviced by an army of giant bees 
Giant bales of pink sugar-candy hay
Drenched in a honey flavoured sun ray

Glow in the dark butlers and purple maids
Liquorice flavoured garden sun shades
World domination through sensuous massage
A herd of wild hippos kept in the garage

My day dreams contain the silly and daft
Strange thing blow through on every draft
My mind is cluttered with harebrained schemes
But every single one of them sparkles and gleams

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