And I Lounged and Lay on Their Beds
When I went to that house of pleasure
I didn't stay in the front rooms where they celebrate,
with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms
and lounged and lay on their beds.
I went into the secret rooms
considered shameful even to name.
But not shameful to me -because if they were,
what kind of poet, what kind of artist would I be?
I'd rather be an ascetic. That would be more in keeping,
much more in keeping with my poetry,
than for me to find pleasure in the commonplace rooms.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Chat Room For Lonely People
Thoughts are the very essence
Of human existence
Even though they sometimes create discord
Whether you express them via your vocal cords
Or through your keyboard
When you are bored.
Didn't folks used to have rooms
Called drawing rooms?
But now all that is left
Is our 'privacy' of which we are bereft.
So, instead of drawing rooms
We have chat rooms
For lonely people
Who would like to chat with friendly people.
poem by Lonely People Champion
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Shared Loneliness
A house is empty if you're alone.
Its rooms are too quiet for it's known
loneliness too, just like you.
It echoes with hollowness
and creaks with despair
for the lone figure it houses
has no one to share
its rooms.
It hears the steps of the solitary one.
It hears the sighs that weigh like a ton
on its floors and walls
where the sadness crawls.
It longs to be filled
with conversational tones
filling up its rooms.
The bedroom is lonely
and the living room too.
The kitchen has a setting for one
and only one cup of coffee to brew.
These rooms can house all of the pain
that lonesomeness brings and still remain
loyal to the one who's alone.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Living House
I saw you in a house of rooms,
It must be saving the bed of contentment,
Feeding the living of people,
Creating contentment as you speak.
My love is fastened to the door
And the window is collapsing.
My violent pages work for the more,
Rooms are rooms meaningful.
The saviour is brought to the houses
And he saves us from slaughter.
I come to you in the middle of town,
As far as the eye keeps, like one hard.
The contentment is just about.
poem by Naveed Akram
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They told me that the hotels had maybe two rooms set up for people with disabilities, but if they got there too late, and didn't get one of these rooms, they couldn't take a shower. The room wasn't hooked up for them, or maybe the sink was too high.
quote by Gregory Hines
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House Of Many Rooms
The sound of the clock ticking
How this old house creeps
Another storm tonight approaches
So restless I can't sleep
Dark filled big long rooms
Portrait of a lady in view
Corridor that never seems to end
From a distance I thought I seen you
House Of Many Rooms
The sound of heavy rain falling
Feelings sourround of another place
An oval mirror hangs on the wall
And there I thought I seen your face
The smell of wild flowers
A gentle breeze blows from outside
Heavy laced dark curtains
A vision of you before my eyes
House Of Many Rooms
poem by Suelynn Walters
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Twenty years ago, you'd see guys busting rackets in locker rooms. Today they do it in their hotel rooms.
quote by Brad Gilbert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If nations always moved from one set of furnished rooms to another - and always into a better set - things might be easier, but the trouble is that there is no one to prepare the new rooms. The future is worse than the ocean - there is nothing there.
quote by Alexander Herzen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Laboratory for Radioactivity consisted of only two rooms at the time; at a later date, when tests of radioactive substances became more extensive, it expanded into four rooms.
quote by Walther Bothe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Promises
Your promise is sound like a niece,
Upstairs the rooms are plenty,
The reward compares to Peace,
I and you are lovable and a discovery.
My complaint subdues your walls
As they crumble and thud to the floors,
Risks are many in these rooms of balls,
A craft of heaven lines the corridors.
May promises keep for some elegant time,
With love I guarantee the house no grime.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Most recently we've been working in concert situations rather than clubs. because there aren't too many rooms there like Ronnie Scott's, that are pure music rooms, where people come specifically to listen to music.
quote by Chuck Mangione
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come On Be Brave! ' (By My Great Niece Kitty Cotton 11 yrs)
Doctors rushing everywhere,
Up and down the aisles,
Patients crying, panicking,
‘Are there any rooms to spare! ’
The parents would say.
Nurses rushing everywhere,
In and out of rooms,
Patients crying, panicking,
‘Don’t worry, all our nurses care! ’
The chief doctor would say
Into the staff rooms,
Into the offices,
Doctors crying, panicking
‘Oh come on be brave, it’ll all be over soon! ’
© Kitty Cotton
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Smokey Hued
My doors smoky open
ethereal;
right and left corridor
compartmented.
I see patterns
and rooms
to the right and left.
Here my Room of Tears,
weeping walls that caterwaul.
All my sorrows hang here
and Deep Regrets lie on the floor.
All My Loves
are in this room
in hues rosette
most past;
their glow
shimmers
even outside
in the corridor.
My eyes lid as I pass
my rooms of Cardinal Sins;
faces there
I'd wronged or mislead,
I was relieved to see Repentments Rooms next
where Atonements array the walls
and below on tables are
Just Due Parchments properly signed
for deliverance to Justice Hall.
I did make some things right there.
Upstairs are my Best Regards
in alcoves 'round my Heart
very soft
healing arts applied with care there.
I'm now down to Secret Sins,
its door ajar with Gambolments,
Inexcusables-Mindless Hurts-
all Unspeakables.
Oh, each time I make this trip
my energy's spent;
and I vow
next time
to make of it
a more pleasant trip
through this
my Soul's House.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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a poem for allan jimenez (written in Arvisu House,1981)
If you open my door
Without knocking and
You simply come in
Without myself
What would you say?
It’s been a time
We cleaned rooms
Scrubbed toilet tiles
Into the desired whiteness
Of saints and souls
We designed rooms
Where no rain
Can get in
And surprise us
Of its pouring
About the damp
About the wet
Or the colds we get
We cannot imagine
Accidents do happen
Despite strict precautions
Of the perfect prefect
Of the other sect
We cannot situate
We at wrong hours
Inside wrong rooms
Talking about wrongs
And we talk
All about us and
It talks all about us
The stay
Silent and still
The closed gate
That must by now
Be opened
Or I get
Muriatic and drink it
As my morning milk
Crazy
Now if you happen
To come into my room
Without myself
As I have gone
Far elsewhere
Without myself
Leaving any note
Or sign that I would
Be coming back
To this room
Clean and tidy
What else can you say?
What else would I say?
I cannot promise
I cannot scare you
Elsewhere I go
With another routine
Hi, hello, how are you?
Anyway
The scheduled morning prayers
Of this sad house
Clean and tidy
Shall recite themselves
Perfectly
Without me
Or us
And sure
Everything everything
Would still be all right
All right.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0012 The House of Metaphor
After you’ve negotiated that artfully-conceived
sharp elbow bend in the long, grand drive
through the fields of its estate,
and it hoves into view,
you always gasp – this palace
- no, more like a temple with living quarters –
set deep in the countryside, yet as sure
as one in Athens or in Rome;
yet that too is artfully contrived -
the slight mound it’s built on,
the cunning proportion that magnifies,
disguises, with its public face
the aptness of a family home;
its public rooms so grand, just echoing enough
to magnify a public speech; its family rooms
smallish, cosy; love and friendliness
live here. It says to the world,
stability; tradition re-affirmed; yet
this is our familiar family home.
It has its rooms, as rooms should be,
devoted to each family pursuit:
here’s the grand library
but here, with books so evidently, lovingly well read;
you almost missed the little girl, her hair and knees
curled round a book, deep in that leather green armchair;
the study, where your breathing seems to change,
there’s such a still and living silence here;
the nursery that emanates a lifetime’s care;
the children’s bedrooms set around it,
through which you ran and laughed and ran again; the window seats
from which you looked so wistfully
as childhood’s assurance faded into teenage questioning;
a house to leave,
a house to come back to;
a metaphor
as living, haunting, as the poetry it is.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter CXXIV: Secret Keeper
There are three types of keeping secret:
Keeping secret because it must be known by no one
Keeping secret because it can't be told to anyone
Keeping secret because wishing there will be someone who asks it
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Eggs Are Falling
Discover the unseen,
Learn the unknown like,
Red wine with a candle light;
A world of darkness is around us.
The line of poetry,
The marks of love;
Respectable to a muse when,
The teacher becomes a student.
Eggs are falling, eggs are falling!
A walk through the Saxon Forest with,
An art by the mile:
Eggs are falling, eggs are falling! !
Discover the unseen and know my mind,
A thought by an inch with a poem by the yard;
The blosson time of love is hear to stay.
Of blue rooms for love,
Of red rooms for roses,
Eggs are falling to where the trees blossom;
Learn the unknow with Red Wine.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Empty Nest
Our house this night is full of life,
both kids up in their rooms.
We're safe and warm from the harrowing storm
with its lightening streaks and booms.
Yet soon I know, both have to go,
to school, to work, to life.
Then this will be an empty nest
with just me and my wife.
How do birds feel, when, freshly fledged,
their young depart forever.
Do they sing more somberly
when the chicks are not together?
We're creatures of habit, like those birds
I see when we're in the park.
I'll catch myself gazing up the stairs
when both their rooms are dark.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Building A Big House
you build a big house
with one thought, a wish
that something may last forever
like love, like the finest wood
like a relationship,
or say
(let me say it this way)
a marriage, like strong stairs
inviting attention to society
that no one is leaving
like a door closing behind
a sigh,
but a house with time falls
pillars collide, and floors go
termite eaten to the ground
doors fall out from the hinges
that hold them it their frames,
nothing lasts forever
i know,
i build a house because i know
what love is
i want to give it shelter and warmth
like those rooms
a glow like those living rooms
a nice dinner
like the kitchen and the dining tables.
i do not think beyond my body
that turns to dust
i know
i do not utter beyond my words, i know,
no words can withstand the
lures of the niceties of a lie.
i know
i build the house because we are here
and there is nothing
worth doing
there is no snow and ski is irrelevant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Attic
Climbing the stairs to the attic up above,
she stopped a moment to think.
What will I find in the rooms so cluttered?
Everything under the sink.
For no one had been curious enough
to see what they could find.
She'd been the one in her family
to never leave anything behind.
And so she entered the musty rooms
and slowly took everything in.
The boxes, the piles and clothes of old
that belonged to most of her kin.
She tried rummaging through pictures
of people she knew right away.
And still there were other faces
whose memories did not stay.
She came upon a picture of two,
two that she did not know.
Completely mesmerized with this picture,
something inside started to grow.
An uneasiness within her heart
for the two looked just like she.
The world stood still for a minute
as she thought 'How can this be? '
And so she searched some more that day
and found her baby photo.
It was attached to a newspaper clipping
that was printed long ago.
'Baby survives. Mom and dad dead
in a terrible wreck.
No identity of the parents that died
Baby girl is just perfect.'
In her mind she knew for sure
a mom and dad had found her,
raised her, loved her as one of their own,
Her eyes all tears and blur.
She knew it was supposed to be
that the attic would always hold
a special meaning for her to keep,
knowledge she kept secret like gold.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Truth of Wealth
You can take the riches
Of lords and ladies of court
Keep them all for all I care
The only wealth I care to seek
Is a good friend and woman to love
A stately home is well enough
But empty rooms follow empty rooms
And the garnish of falsehood
Those people who humour for the self
That they are invited to parties
The soirees of the self involved
Are not to my particular taste
I prefer the values of friendship
The honesty and support I find
In those who are there, and counted
When the is nothing to gain
The company of a friend
The companionship of a beautiful girl
That is what I have come to find
As the markings of the truest wealth
poem by Matthew Holloway
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