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The Door Left Ajar
Everynight,
I wait for the dawn
Hoping,
You might just walk in
From that door
I had left ajar
Anticipating your return.
Then the dawn
Matures into the day
And the day
Dissolves into dusk
My door
Still remains ajar
Anticipating your return.
As the dusk
Gathers more of its colour
And embraces stillness
Like impending doom.
My heart sinks
As if shipwrecked on sea.
My door
Still remains ajar
Anticipating your return.
Then
Everynight
I wait for the dawn
hoping
You might just walk in
From that door
I had left ajar
Anticipating your return.
poem by Anjali Kakati
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Door is the key
With the door bolted in, you feel secure;
When it is bolted out, you feel imprisoned.
With the door kept open, you feel free.
The third one ensures the freeness of mind.
02.01.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Just Beyond Touch!
your seminal lips,
swollen, quiver....
pajama bound,
light turning on the bottle,
cigarette ashe falling
to the floor....
you smell like me,
25 years ago...
or woodsmoke hanging
in the autumnal chill...
frost on the windows,
the door locked and bolted....
a pair of old boots
sit alone on the porch.
moonlight, and you....
just beyond touch!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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I know some lonely Houses off the Road
289
I know some lonely Houses off the Road
A Robber'd like the look of—
Wooden barred,
And Windows hanging low,
Inviting to—
A Portico,
Where two could creep—
One—hand the Tools—
The other peep—
To make sure All's Asleep—
Old fashioned eyes—
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the Kitchen'd look, by night,
With just a Clock—
But they could gag the Tick—
And Mice won't bark—
And so the Walls—don't tell—
None—will—
A pair of Spectacles ajar just stir—
An Almanac's aware—
Was it the Mat—winked,
Or a Nervous Star?
The Moon—slides down the stair,
To see who's there!
There's plunder—where—
Tankard, or Spoon—
Earring—or Stone—
A Watch—Some Ancient Brooch
To match the Grandmama—
Staid sleeping—there—
Day—ratt les—too
Stealth's—slow—
T he Sun has got as far
As the third Sycamore—
Screams Chanticleer
"Who's there"?
And Echoes—Trains away,
Sneer—"Where"!
While the old Couple, just astir,
Fancy the Sunrise—left the door ajar!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I Step Out Of The Door
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not opened
it is humid
it is cold
and i step out of the door the windows still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades
and shaken
i look upon a sky
and there is this star still shining despite the opening of the
mouth of the morning
after a deep sleep
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Deserted House
Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide.
Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door; the shutters close;
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious -
A great and distant city -have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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It's no use locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.
It is too late to shut the stable-door after the horse has bolted.
It's too late to shut the stable-door after the horse has bolted.
It's too late to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted.
Bolted in and bolted out
To be humble is not to be slave
Though outwardly they may look same.
To be in the cell with doors bolted in
Is not being in it with doors bolted out.
28.02.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.
quote by Christopher Morley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Affinity
I am the farthest far
Chased by chased cars
I am the subtle scar
Of the old dead star
A remnant of the war
An option always ajar
Just, always, ajar.
poem by Norman Santos
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Too Tired To Notice The Storm Of The Earth...
i wake up early today
i open the windows and the door
the ground is flooded
the trees shed more leaves
the chickens' feathers are
thoroughly wet
some branches are cut-off
from those old tall trees
our dog is not wagging its tail
the lights at the kitchen are not turned off
by the looks of it
there was a big storm last night
i did not notice it
i was dead asleep
too tired of my own inner storms
my door is closed,
all my windows are shut.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bolted Deep In It
Bolted deep in it.
With a tightened grip that fits...
To make sure no loose ends would dangle,
From a knit to slip!
Bolted deep in it.
With a tightened grip that fits.
And bolted deeper just to keep,
Mouths closed with silenced lips!
An upper hand is now commanding,
Everyone to take a stand.
And those who choose to bicker and moan,
Are left with their antics alone!
An upper hand is now commanding,
With no loop holes to excuse.
Or those denying they've been framed...
As all their gains go down the drain.
They've been bolted deep in it.
With a tightened grip that fits.
With no loop holes to excuse.
To accuse they've been abused.
Bolted deep in it.
With a tightened grip that fits...
To make sure no loose ends would dangle,
From a knit to slip!
And bolted deeper just to keep,
Mouths closed with silenced lips!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Steamy Windows
(tony joe white)
Well I was thinkin bout parking the other night
We was out on a back road
Me and my lady was just gettin right
All systems on overload
Radio blasting in the front seat
Turnin out the music fine
We were snuggled up in the back seat
Makin up for lost time
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
You can wine and dine a lady all night
With good intent
But theres something about a rendezvous on a back road
That gets mighty intense
Steamy windows
Aint nobody can see
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Theres a sound outside the front door
And I know its just the wind
But it makes us wanna snuggle just a little bit closer
And it starts all over again
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Steamy windows...
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Aint nobody can see...
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Star of Bethlehem
‘Will you come again? ’
I asked you that evening
Your steps moved silently
Towards the door
The setting sun by then
Stealthily entered through
The door ajar
All set to grab you
The floor under my feet
Felt damp
Dusk, gathering its shadows
The question silently repeated
As silently as the stars that
Revealed themselves
On the fading sky
You turned your head
Standing one step
Outside the door
Your eyes twinkled
As those stars
Hope hoisted
A star-like flag…
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Country House
Did the door move, or was it always ajar?
The gladioli on the table are pale mauve.
I smell pale mauve and blue,
Blue soft like bruises—putrid—oozing—
The air oozes blue—mauve—
And the door with the black line where it does not shut!
I must pass that door to go to bed,
Or I must stay here
And watch the crack
Oozing air.
Is it—air?
poem by Amy Lowell
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