At the Movie: Virginia, 1956
This is how it was:
they had their own churches, their own schools,
schoolbuses, football teams, bands and majorettes,
separate restaurants, in all the public places
their own bathrooms, at the doctor's
their own waiting room, in the Tribune
a column for their news, in the village
a neighborhood called Sugar Hill,
uneven rows of unresponsive houses
that took the maids back in each afternoon—
in our homes used the designated door,
on Trailways sat in the back, and at the movie
paid at a separate entrance, stayed upstairs.
Saturdays, a double feature drew the local kids
as the town bulged, families surfacing
for groceries, medicine and wine,
the black barber, white clerks in the stores—crowds
lined the sidewalks, swirled through the courthouse yard,
around the stone soldier and the flag,
and still I never saw them on the street.
It seemed a chivalric code
laced the milk: you'd try not to look
and they would try to be invisible.
Once, on my way to the creek,
I went without permission to the tenants'
log cabin near the barns, and when Aunt Susie
opened the door, a cave yawned, and beyond her square,
leonine, freckled face, in the hushed interior,
Joe White lumbered up from the table, six unfolding
feet of him, dark as a gun-barrel, his head bent
to clear the chinked rafters, and I caught
the terrifying smell of sweat and grease,
smell of the woodstove, nightjar, straw mattress—
This was rural Piedmont, upper south;
we lived on a farm but not in poverty.
When finally we got our own TV, the evening news
with its hooded figures of the Ku Klux Klan
seemed like another movie—King Solomon's Mines,
the serial of Atlantis in the sea.
By then I was thirteen,
and no longer went to movies to see movies.
The downstairs forged its attentions forward,
toward the lit horizon, but leaning a little
to one side or the other, arranging the pairs
that would own the county, stores and farms, everything
but easy passage out of there—
and through my wing-tipped glasses the balcony
took on a sullen glamor: whenever the film
sputtered on the reel, when the music died
and the lights came on, I swiveled my face
up to where they whooped and swore,
to the smoky blue haze and that tribe
of black and brown, licorice, coffee,
taffy, red oak, sweet tea—
wanting to look, not knowing how to see,
I thought it was a special privilege
to enter the side door, climb the stairs
and scan the even rows below—trained bears
in a pit, herded by the stringent rule,
while they were free, lounging above us,
their laughter pelting down on us like trash.
poem by Ellen Bryant Voigt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Black Licorice
Whooo ... wheee!
You there, comin up the stair, the feelin is ice-blue cold.
Shake, its more than I can take, Im startin to lose control.
Watch out, whats that noise, theres somebody at the door.
It must be black licorice, she come back to make me cry some more.
Time, aint on my side, Im losin it more each day.
Licorice, licorice.
Shes got evil in her eyes, and catnip is her taste.
Licorice, licorice.
She wraps me up in her slender legs, her hot black skin to mine.
Licorice, licorice.
Ple ... ple ...please, dont touch me, oh, I know Im dead this time.
Oh, oh, yeah ... licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, licorice, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, woah, black licorice.
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not An Answer Why.
Fay managed to get out
while her father worked
and she came
and knocked at your door
and said
You want to go out?
Sure
you replied
and you both went down
the stairs of the apartment block
across the Square
and down the slope
up Meadow Road
crossing over
the bombsite
behind the coal wharf
and on to the main road
where you walked along
side by side
Let's see what's on
at the movies
you said
and you stopped outside
the movie house
and peered at the programmes
Fay said
My daddy doesn't think
movies are right for children
he says they're sinful
and full of lust
and sex
and greed
and she stopped
and stared along the road
at the people passing
and the cars and lorries
going by
on the main road
and the evening air
choked up with fumes
and the street lights
giving a false perspective
It isn't all like that
you said
Some movies are about love
and laughter
and people enjoy going
it takes them out
of their dreary lives
Fay said
I've never been
inside a movie house
never seen a movie
Well why don't you come with me
to the matinee on Saturday
I can squeeze some money
from my dad for the two of us
Fay looked at you
and seemed interested
but then said
No I can't
if my father caught me
there'd be hell to pay
and apart from the lecture
on the immorality
of the arts and such
he'd belt me some
and not let me out again
for some time
and you said
Ok but some day
you're going to find out
things aren't always
as the parents say
then you're going to
have to find your own road
and walk your own way
and she looked sad
and walked away
from the movie house
along to the subway
and down the steps
into the bright lights
and noise of traffic
over head
and you touched her hand
and she gripped yours
and you walked down
through the subway tunnel
she in her flowered dress
and brown shoes
slightly scuffed
and you
in your tee shirt and jeans
and you pretended
not to notice
the bruise on her thigh
which caught your eye
as she skipped along
her dress rising high
as she went holding tight
your hand
her fingers wrapped
about yours
and up and out
on the other side
of the subway
with its bright lights
and evening sky
and too many questions
and not an answer why.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Serial killers are everywhere! Well, perhaps not in our neighborhood, but on our television screens, at the movie theatres, and in rows and rows of books at our local Borders or Barnes and Noble Booksellers.
(Waiting For) The Ghost Train
A straw headed woman, and a barrel chested man,
A pocket full of posies with a hat brim full of sand,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
A dog chasing the tumbleweeds, across the sandy floor,
That drift along the platform, through the ticket office door,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
But don't tell me there's nothing coming, you don't fool me,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
The station master's writing with a piece of orange chalk,
A hundred cancellations, still no one wants to walk,
Keep the hungry children from the skeletons in the back,
Paid to keep an eye out for the gipsy caravan,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost Train
A straw headed woman, and a barrel chested man,
A pocket full of posies with a hat brim full of sand,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
A dog chasing the tumbleweeds, across the sandy floor,
That drift along the platform, through the ticket office door,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
But don't tell me there's nothing coming, you don't fool me,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
The station master's writing with a piece of orange chalk,
A hundred cancellations, still no one wants to walk,
Keep the hungry children from the skeletons in the back,
Paid to keep an eye out for the gipsy caravan,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is it Tea or Coffee?
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Tell me!
My instant early morning dream
I like it black, white with sugar or cream!
The choice is free
Yet the mind cannot agree
With Tea is a Yippee!
With Coffee it is a Whoopee!
The thought of a little caffeine
The smell of fresh roasted beans
Will once again set off my adrenalin
While my exhausted brain is waiting
That stirring cup of sizzling black
Put on the kettle; spill the beans out of the sack
I will pay the fee; I will pay the levee
I will beg on one knee for a little bit of Coffee
Take a sip of the early morning coffee
Close your eyes and try to see
As you smell the airy aroma like a bee
Tea or Coffee! Perhaps you now understand me
Those swarms of dark brown seeds
They feed my vicious needs indeed
I don’t care how much I pee or how much I wee
For that sparking liquid of hot black called coffee
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Helen and You and the Bombed Out Factory
Ought we to go in there?
Helen asked
as you both stood outside
the bombed out factory
off Rockingham Street
sure we should
you said
but it's got
STAY OUT signs
on the big doors
she said
you looked at her
with her thick lens glasses
and her hair tied in plaits
nibbling her finger in anxiety
come on in
you said
nothing will happen to you
while you're with me
she didn't look convinced
what if someone sees us?
she asked
no one cares around here
kids are always going
on bombsites
you said
she looked around
her eyes seemingly larger
than they were
are you sure?
she said
yes now come on
and you took
her small hand
and pulled her through
a small opening
in the side
where other kids
had made an entrance
she a pulled face
on the other side
of the gate
and rubbed her arm
where a line of blood showed
look
she said
I've scratched myself
you dabbed at it
with a grey handkerchief
and spittle and she watched
as you cleared up
the line of blood
will it be all right?
yes
you said
it'll be fine
and you walked on
across the yard
and into the bombed out factory by
a door hanging
on its hinges
and into the dark interior
she stood by the entrance inside
and took in the semi darkness
it's frightening
she said
no one is here
you said
how do you know?
she asked
it's too quiet
you said
she leaned closer to you
and grabbed your arm
what was that?
she whispered
a rat probably
what? she said
a rat
you said
let's go out
she said
nothing will hurt you
while I'm here
and you patted
the toy gun
in the belt
of your jeans
she looked at you
then out
into the semi darkness
you walked in
and up the stone stairs
by a wall
and she followed
her breathing
becoming louder
as you walked up
once at the top
and along a landing
you came to a small office
where the door was missing
and there was a hole
in the roof where a bomb
had blown it off
as well as other parts
of the building
you stood
looking around
the room
where rain had rotted
what furniture remained
and on the floor
were books soaked
and rotting
Helen said
can we go now?
you looked up
through the hole
in the roof
and there
was the afternoon sun
and a white cloud
moving slowly across
a blue sky
and she moved
next to you
and kissed your cheek
but you didn't know why.
poem by Terry Collett
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My Home Is Where My Heart Is
my home is where my heart is.
the white furniture are the veranda
the black umbrella at the side of the door
the green grass the lush trees
the pathway filled with pebbles
the ceiling with a fan
the stairs without dust
the railings with shellac
mahogany smell of walls
the well at the backyard
the smell of bacon at the kitchen
scrambled eggs and fresh milk
every morning
the smoke rising to the roof
of white steam rice
mother calling us all
and father waiting
praying for grace
and then this hearty meal
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Invitation.
She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor
and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall
Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away
and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs
to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in
and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?
tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said
and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down
he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat
was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day
she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit
like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in
with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa
and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile
then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine
and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down
and began talking
about the night
he had met her
and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited
him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink
and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him
and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet
on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband
had invited him
to their place
to play chess
and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting
her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often
and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand
on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine
and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him
and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting
on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.
poem by Terry Collett
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This Was A Movie
Last night I heard my own heart beating
Sounded like footsteps on my stairs
Six months gone and I'm still reaching
Even though I know you're not there
I was playing back a thousand memories,
baby
Thinking 'bout everything we've been
through
Maybe I've been going back too much
lately
When time stood still and I had you
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You would, you would if this was a movie
Stand in the rain outside 'til I came out
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You could, you could if you just said you're
sorry
I know that we could work it out somehow
But if this was a movie you'd be here by
now
I know people change and these things
happen
But I remember how it was back then
Wrapped up in your arms and our friends
were laughing
'Cause nothing like this ever happened to
them,
Now I'm pacing down the hall, chasing
down your street
Flashback to the night when you said to me,
'Nothing's gonna change, not for me and
you
Not before I knew how much I had to lose'
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You would, you would if this was a movie
Stand in the rain outside 'til I came out
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You could, you could if you just said you're
sorry
I know that we could work it out somehow
But if this was a movie you'd be here by
now
If you're out there
If you're somewhere
If you're moving on
I've been waiting for you
Wary since you've been gone
I just want it back the way it was before
And I just wanna see you back at my front
door
And I say
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You would before you said it's not that
easy
Before the fight, before I locked you out
But I take it all back now
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You would, you would if this was a movie
Stand in the rain outside 'til I came out
Come back, come back, come back to me
like
You could, you could if you just said you're
sorry
I know that we could work it out somehow
But if this was a movie you'd be here by
now
You'd be here by now
It's not the kind of ending you wanna see
now
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Peace or Poverty
Their skin soaks up the heat
Leaving it as black as the midnight sky,
Their eyes wide, white, pleading
Begging to the passersby.
They litter the street
Half naked bodies,
Red and colouring their feet
Searching for a entrance
A door out of the circle of poverty.
Poverty means destruction
Destruction means fear
Behind locked doors we sit in early evening
Too scared to see a black face
Terrified of black feet crossing the threshold.
But why be fearful of your slaves,
Those you whip and beat
Treating like the dirt from the doormat
Where you wipe your feet.
Role diversity causes poverty
Poverty destroys peace
But peace minus poverty
Means Equality should increase.
poem by Sonali Shah
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Sketches For A Fine Day
actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today
a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged
does her assigned task in the street
gathering dead leaves
as i watch
it is a bright day
the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus
a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree
a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard
a young woman with short blue jeans
jogs along the green valley
the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon
like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Bears The Guilt.... (In The End)
i close my eyes and go back...
sixties angry churning deep south,
to the old oak tree in the clearing.
where two bodies hung side by side;
one young black man, local,
one young jewish man,
who came from the north to protest.
both stripped naked, badly beaten,
whose sins did they die for?
black and white Jesus's,
neath a guilt ridden limb...
whose crown of thorns?
and who will roll away the stone?
45 years later,
a couple lines in the news.
a young gay man hanging from a rafter.
the victim of bullying and discrimination.
will we never learn?
how many Jesus's?
how many crosses?
in the end... who bears the guilt?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dust
the old man puttered around his bushes...
taking his time, ... time was all he had left.
since his wife had died, it seemed like everything
was suspended. just him and the dog now, and
the dog was old and blind.
Maria watched him. everyday the same thing, in
his yard, or walking his dog. she thought to herself,
'that's just sadness walking...'
Maria was 28, never married, kinda plain, but clean.
her boy Tyler was seven, a boy's boy, and in school.
she put the pie in the oven, and walked over to the
coffeepot. she paused for a moment, then poured
two cups, and walked out the door.
'hey, George, want a cup of coffee? '
'thank you, dont mind if i do.'
they exchanged small talk...after a bit the old man said,
'getting a little tired, gonna have to sit down. you wanna
come in? '
'yea, just for a bit.'
they went in the back door, and sat down at the kitchen
table. she noticed things were a little dusty, but otherwise
ok. there was a stillness that permeated the house.
there were pictures on the wall, mostly family pictures,
most in black and white.
'how're your kids? '
' ok i guess, dont hear from them much. every now and then
they'll call and tell me how the grandkids are doing...'
she opened the Bible on the table. 'guess you read this a lot/'
'used to... now i dont see so well to read anymore.'
she looked down to where she had opened the Bible. a passage
was marked. 'to everything there is a season...' she closed the
book
'guess you get awful lonely? '
'not so bad during the day, pretty bad at night...'
'i just put a strawberry pie in the oven... maybe tonite after i put
Tyler to bed, i'll bring you a piece.'
'thank you, i'd appreciate that! '
she walked back across the road, wondering what he ate, or if...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Priest They Called Him
fight tuberculosis, folks. christmas eve, an old
Junkie selling christmas seals on north park street.
The priest, they called him. fight tuberculosis, folks.
People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall.
It was getting late and no money to score.
He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife.
Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight.
Boy got out with a suitcase. thin kid in prep school clothes,
Familiar face, the priest told himself, watching from the doorway.
remindsme of something a long time ago. the boy, there, with his overcoat
Unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare.
The cab drove away and turned the corner. the boy went inside
A building. hmm, yes, maybe - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
The boy nowhere in sight. gone to get the keys, most likely,
Have to move fast. he picked up the suitcase and started for the corner.
Made it. glanced down at the case. it didnt look like the case the boy had,
Or any boy would have. the priest couldnt put his finger on what was so
Old about the case. old and dirty, poor quality leather, and heavy.
Better see whats inside. he turned into lincoln park, found an
Empty place and opened the case. two severed human legs that belonged to
A young man with dark skin. shiny black leg hairs glittered in the
Dim streetlight. the legs had been forced into the case and he had to use
His knee on the back of the case to shove them out. legs, yet,
He said, and walked quickly away with the case.
Might bring a few dollars to score. the buyer sniffed suspiciously.
kind of a funny smell about it. its just mexican leather.
well, some joker didnt cure it.
The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor.
not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is.
Three is the best I can do and it hurts. but since this is christmas
And youre the priest... he slipped three bills under the table into the
Priests dirty hand. the priest faded into the street shadows, seedy
And furtive. three cents didnt buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel.
Say, remember that old addie croaker told me not to come back unless
I paid him the three cents I owe him. yeah, isnt that a fruit for ya,
Blow your stack about three lousy cents.
The doctor was not pleased to see him.
now, what do you want? I told you!
The priest laid three bills on the table. the doctor put the
Money in his pocket and started to scream.
Ive had troubles! people have been around!
I may lose my license! the priest just sat there, eyes, old and heavy with
Years of junk, on the doctors face.
i cant write you a prescription. the doctor jerked open a drawer
And slid an ampule across the table. thats all I have in the office!
The doctor stood up. take it and get out! he screamed, hysterical.
The priests expression did not change.
The doctor added in quieter tones, after all, Im a professional man,
And I shouldnt be bothered by people like you.
is that all you have for me? one lousy quarter g? couldnt you lend
Me a nickel...? get out, get out, Ill call the police I tell you.
all right, doctor, Im going. of course it was cold and far to walk,
Rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor.
these stairs, coughed the priest there, pulling himself up along the
Bannister. he went into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
Toilet dripping, and got his works from under the washbasin.
Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room, get every drop in the dropper.
He rolled up his sleeve. then he heard a groan from next door,
Room eighteen. the mexican kid lived there, the priest had passed him on
The stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never spoke, because he
Didnt want any juvenile connections, bad news in any language.
The priest had had enough bad news in his life.
He heard the groan again, a groan he could feel, no mistaking that groan
And what it meant. maybe he had an accident or something.
In any case, I cant enjoy my priestly medications with that sound coming
Through the wall. thin walls you understand. the priest put down his
Dropper, cold hall, and knocked on the door of room eighteen.
quien es? its the preist, kid, I live next door.
He could hear someone hobbling across the floor.
A bolt slid. the boy stood there in his underwear shorts, eyes black with
Pain. he started to fall. the priest helped him over to the bed.
whats wrong, son? its my legs, senor, cramps, and now I am without
Medicine. the priest could see the cramps, like knots of wood there
In the young legs, dark shiny black leg hairs.
a few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race,
It was then that the cramps started. and now he has the leg cramps back
With compound junk interest. the old priest stood there, feeling the boy
Groan. he inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and got his dropper.
its just a quarter g, kid. i do not require much, senor.
The boy was sleeping when the priest left room eighteen.
He went back to his room and sat down on the bed.
Then it hit him like heavy silent snow. all the gray junk yesterdays.
He sat there received the immaculate fix. and since he was himself a priest,
There was no need to call one.
song performed by by Nirvana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Day & Night We Walk These Aisles
Day and night we walk these aisles
In the same old movie show
And look for someone to feel for a while.
Theres matinees on saturdays
When we sit in the velvet chairs
Popcorn boxes fly through the air.
Sad movies, they make you cry
Sad movies make you wonder why
You ever came.
Do something to me,
Dont make me wait
Stab something through me,
Dont cry out the good things
That I appreciate.
Day and night we walk these aisles
In the same old movie show
And look for someone to feel for a while
The lights go on, the movies gone
And the managers up there
He says he doesnt care
And we take our money back.
Sad movies, they make you cry
Sad movies make you wonder why
You ever came.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Relating To Robinson
Somewhere in Chelsea, early summer;
And, walking in the twilight toward the docks,
I thought I made out Robinson ahead of me.
From an uncurtained second-story room, a radio
Was playing There’s a Small Hotel; a kite
Twisted above dark rooftops and slow drifting birds.
We were alone there, he and I,
Inhabiting the empty street.
Under a sign for Natural Bloom Cigars,
While lights clicked softly in the dusk from red to green,
He stopped and gazed into a window
Where a plaster Venus, modeling a truss,
Looked out at Eastbound traffic. (But Robinson,
I knew, was out of town: he summers at a place in Maine,
Sometimes on Fire Island, sometimes the Cape,
Leaves town in June and comes back after Labor Day.)
And yet, I almost called out, “Robinson!”
There was no chance. Just as I passed,
Turning my head to search his face,
His own head turned with mine
And fixed me with dilated, terrifying eyes
That stopped my blood. His voice
Came at me like an echo in the dark.
“I thought I saw the whirlpool opening.
Kicked all night at a bolted door.
You must have followed me from Astor Place.
An empty paper floats down at the last.
And then a day as huge as yesterday in pairs
Unrolled its horror on my face
Until it blocked—” Running in sweat
To reach the docks, I turned back
For a second glance. I had no certainty,
There in the dark, that it was Robinson
Or someone else.
The block was bare. The Venus,
Bathed in blue fluorescent light,
Stared toward the river. As I hurried West,
The lights across the bay were coming on.
The boats moved silently and the low whistles blew.
poem by Weldon Kees
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Allegory Of The Cycle Of Doors
and so there is this door that appears before you
and you open it
and then when you enter the room
another door appears
this is the cycle of doors that keep on appearing and you
keep on opening
but the room still appears from a distance
always distant
from your eager feet to enter
you say to enter the room i must please the door
but the room moves away just the same
and the door tells you
to keep the room
you have to burn it and when the room is burned
the door finally disappears
and then both the door and the room shall tell you
now be happy
for you now have a house of your own
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Nutcrackers and the Sugar-Tongs
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away. -- And they never came back!
poem by Edward Lear
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lostness.
Mickey had locked himself
In the house and his mother
Was concerned he’d do something
To harm himself so you went
Around and knocked at the back
Door and called his name and
He said go away I don’t want to
Talk to anyone but you stayed
And persisted and he finally
Opened up and let you in and
You said why this? And he said
I’m so like my old man that I
Hate myself and he stared at
The Van Gogh print on the wall
Above the fireplace with a look
Of deep unhappiness and lostness
On his face. You are what you make
Yourself you said taking in Vincent’s
Sunflowers the way the vibrant
Picture hung there the smell of
Flowers in the late evening air.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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