That house in Brackenfell
That house in Brackenfell
had new furniture,
a wine red Kameel lounge suite,
a solid wood dining room table,
a big queen size bed with drawers,
a brand new washing machine,
a white Kelvinator stove and refrigerator.
I worked on an old display case there
stripping varnish, rubbing it
with sandpaper and gluing
it together again
into which your mother
put some mirrors at the back
and we gave it to her.
I planted flowers and shrubs
in that small garden
and watered them
and we lived there
in our first dwelling
for just a few months
driving to work
at Tygerberg hospital and back.
Your folks went away on holiday
and we had to look after
the Pomeranian
and you twisted
that orange-brown Wollie’s member
when he lifted his leg
against the lounge suite
and the poor thing
had to go to the vet
to get over its shock.
Everything went really swell
till one night
that you used the bath
and were naked in it
with all the taps closed
when the walls
started to knock
with a sturdy sound
expected on the front door.
At first you didn’t understand
what was happening
but when you realized
you gave a great scream,
and went to the bedroom
to dress.
Later I found out
that students had played
glass-glass with an ouija board
in that house
and had invited some spirits in.
When the lights
started to go on and off
and doors opened and closed
on their own
you had it with the witchery
and with that house
and moved to your parents
huge villa a little way off.
I at first stayed and prayed
and opened the bible
and told the spirits to be gone
and so they did
but you didn’t believe it
and never set your foot
in that place again.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Muckleneuk Ridge
We sat between packed boxes
in a sold house
and I made some tea
and while we drank
the hot liquid
I told you that I
cannot afford the mansion
in Muckleneuk Ridge
near Unisa University
of which the rent included
water and electricity.
The two boys
were playing outside
with the dogs
throwing a tennis ball
for them
and we could hear
their laughter and excitement
coming in.
It was a really grand place,
with five bedrooms, a study,
a very big lounge
and had a great modern kitchen.
It had huge rooms
with private entrances,
yellow wood floors,
pine ceilings,
a braai aria at the back
and sprinklers
in a huge garden.
You didn’t want to take
no for an answer,
started crying
and went on you knees
begging me please
and embraced my legs.
That house had caught
your heart,
spoke to something
in your soul
and made you truly
feel like a lady.
I helped you to your feet
drawing you up
by you hands
and we embraced.
There wasn’t much
that I could do, but to agree
and although we cut the finances,
I had to make a plan.
That house was like palace,
it was near to the highway
to Johannesburg
(where I worked) ,
right for the children’s school
right for your work
and just the place for you.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mystery House
That door had been shut for years
No sound ever passed its ears
Its eyes were starved, for light,
Inside was just silent Night
Why was it closed, what had it been
Had it some kind of mishap seen
Was it waiting for its master, last,
To free it from some spell he cast
The wood cracked, the metal, rusted
cobwebs on its top vested
' The house of ghosts ',
it was taunted
Little John too knew the house was haunted
Eerie spirits, you could hear all night,
poor Ken, you see, huddled in fright
mother forbade, no one went close
into the death trap, none tried nor chose
' The Winchester House ', it was named once
None gave the manor's house a glance
I believe the house, will forever remain
Yet none its mystery will ever explain.
poem by Vishnu Sampoorn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Christmas Story 'believe
she was awoken with a loud thunderous sound
she jumped up and looked around.
it can't be santa claus? it just can't be.
mommy did'nt even have money to buy a tree.
she heard the sound one more time
and upon her roof they did climb.
the little pitter patter of hooves
above her head
made her turn and jump out of bed.
she ran to the window and
looked to the roof
she wanted to tell her mother
she did have the proof.
she saw something red
moving to the chimney
then she knew it had to be.
that santa claus is not only
in our hearts and minds
and will live throughout all time.
all children are supposed
to be asleep.
but through half closed eyes
they would peak.
she then heard the sounds in
the room below.
as she opened the door very slow.
to her surprise there was a tree
decorated 'oh so beautifully'.
and there under the tree
there was gifts galore
who would think - that they were poor.
as she started to look around
at the fireplace he was found.
he was having the milk and cookies
that were left that night.
' oh my gosh what a beautiful sight'.
he then put his finger to his nose
and just like the book
up the chimney he rose.
she went back to her room, and climbed
back into her bed, said her prayers
and laid down her head.
she awoke the next morning
thinking it was a dream.
when she heard her mother scream.
how is this possible? how can it be?
'all these presents, and with a tree.'
as she ran to her mothers side
the tears started to fill her eyes.
i don't know who did this? i have no clue
and i don't know what i should do.
she then told her what she heard
and saw the night before
when she opened up her bedroom door.
as we opened up the first package
from under the tree
we saw a metal frame with one word.
BELIEVE
now we put this question to you.
do you believe? is this story true?
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy!
The Ouija Board
In Holmewood a quiet mining village in North Derbyshire
where the terraced houses were still owned by the mine.
There lived a young ex-miner with his wife and children,
and Dennis the father hadn’t worked for sometime.
Concrete floors were laid downstairs because of subsidence,
they had no curtains, carpets, television, or hi-fi.
All their money went on rent, food, and paying bills,
Vera was unhappy, but Dennis couldn’t understand why.
She wanted to move away from the village to Derby,
where opportunities knocked on every ones door.
But Dennis was accustomed to the hardships of mining
and moving away didn’t have the same draw.
He always persuaded Vera that things would get better
and a kiss and cuddle covered his incompetence.
All his ex-miner cronies were in the same boat,
and working for a living to him made no sense.
He’d become lazy and didn’t want the hassle of a new life
unlike many ex-miners who had moved to pastures new.
Many of the young families who rented their houses
were tied to the mine and didn’t know what else to do.
At the end of the main street was the village’s nearest pit,
and on any shift any miner could die.
Throughout the years many men had lost their lives,
and their bodies in the cemetery lie.
The miners’ widows very often came to see Vera
to ask if she would make contact with their dead.
She felt for the community and turned no one away,
and their gratitude helped to pay for the bread.
One night she would organise six people to be together,
in the unlit empty room at the top of the stairs.
Carrying a lit candle, an empty glass and Ouija board,
she would arrange the table and six fold down chairs.
The home made Ouija board lay flat on the table
and in the middle was the upturned glass.
As everyone placed their index finger on the top of it,
Vera whispered for silence for what was about to pass.
They waited whist the candle flame danced and flickered,
again she whispered, “Is anyone there? ”
As the glass moved to letters on the board’s pencilled alphabet,
a confirmation brought a chill to the air.
Vera never once failed to make spiritual contacts,
but always stopped when the ‘evil’ came through.
Whenever the spiritual highway became opened
the same forceful ‘evil’ presence became renewed.
It was obvious they didn’t return and close the highway,
they stayed in the room that was turning black.
Dennis admitted they should move away from the ‘evil’,
because Vera could not to send them back.
The ‘evil ones’ became restless and moved furnishings,
it was frightening and getting worse each night.
Then for no apparent reason the ‘evil’ ones went quiet,
for over six weeks the peace was pure delight.
They hoped their haunting was over and they had gone for good.
Weeks later Vera had a visit from her cousin who was blind.
She hadn’t seen her, or her guide-dog ‘Eyes’ for over a year.
Whilst talking, ‘Eyes’ went upstairs and they paid it no mind.
An open door slammed behind the dog which shook the house,
and filled Dennis with panic, as Vera dashed upstairs.
She tried to enter the bedroom, but the door wouldn’t budge,
Vera shouted, but Dennis was outside, glad to be out of there.
‘Eyes’ was howling and scratching the floor trying to get out,
a split second later Vera heard the sound of breaking glass.
She raced down stairs into the street below the bedroom window;
‘Eyes’ lay still and bleeding amongst the glass he smashed.
‘Eyes’ began to whimper as its wounds seeped with blood,
Vera could hardly speak, as her cousin asked about ‘Eyes’.
‘Eyes’ thankfully recovered, and the family moved to Derby.
The new life was fine until the Ouija was again given a try.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unburdened.
It's not the sort of house
You'd want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn't leave for days.
She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.
There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.
We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water's skin. Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn't, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they'd suffocated.
That's where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn't. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.
Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.
She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD'd days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.
Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he'd bought.
She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn't tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They'd had at his in town clinic.
Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.
Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dear Boy
I didn't think I was in love with you, and I know I don't want to be now.
Until I started to dream of you, I always had a way to keep you out.
You're back in again, my old best friend; I start to wonder too, do you dream of me like I do of you?
Did you see me in your house, wearing nothing much or anything.
Did you walk with me on that boat, sitting at our table all alone.
Were you eating in my house? Arguing at my front door?
Driving away, with the thought at bay, "do I love her anymore? "
Was it you in blue in my bedroom after the homecoming dance?
All those times, I couldn't see your face, but then I felt your embrace.
Or do you dream of someone else, the prettiest girl you've ever seen, way prettier than me.
Does she have chocolate hair, golden curls, and a wonderful way with words?
Is she better than me at everything, captain of the volleyball team,
She's going to be your prom queen?
Well she'll never know as much as me.
poem by D.M.L. Catseye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House On Centerville Road
We stopped beside the highway
And gazed at the old house
I told my wife, “That’s where I lived”
When I was just a little sprout
It looked smaller than it once did
Back so many years ago
Even then it was old and creaky
But, as a kid, I didn’t know
Weathered boards were loose and falling
Saplings grew up through the porch
The old tin roof was rusted orange
And the yard looked like a forest
Here dwells my oldest memories
From so many years ago
When our young family lived here
In the house on Centerville road
Those walls once rang with laughter
And the energy of two young lads
Riding stick horses all around the place
Trying to “herd” our collie, Pat
But, Pat knew more than we did
When she’d hear Mama shout
She’d turn us back from the road
And herd two boys toward the house
Dad got a job and we moved to town
Well before I started school
So, my memories are short and sketchy
But, I’ve found there are quite a few
My wife retrieved her camera
And as I turned the key to go
Snapped a picture from her window
Of the house on Centerville road
10/07/07
poem by C.R. Clark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Trapped In The Past
My home town is still dark and sombre.
The street where I lived still has one light.
The house I was brought up in was haunted,
which gave me nightmares every night.
Lately I’ve been feeling drawn to the place
even though I was pleased to escape.
Today it remains boarded up and empty
and I’m visiting for old times sake.
Both my parents saw out their lives here
and gave the other dwellers no mind.
They said they didn’t see or hear what I did
and didn’t believe in the ghostly kind.
That front door leads to hell-hole of misery,
every memory a pain in my mind.
I’m glad I don’t have to venture inside,
there’s nothing I want to find.
Through the nailed on boarding I’ve been taken.
It’s dark and the plaster on the walls is unsound.
The floorboards have rotted with woodworm,
and from the stairs come’s a creaking sound.
I can now hear talking in an upstairs bedroom,
which has brought a shudder down my spine.
Goose bumps on my flesh have tightened
and my feelings are the worst possible kind.
This place is rekindling unpleasant memories
and I didn’t really want to come this far.
In vain I’ve tried to get out, but I’m trapped again
with the ghosts that I lived with before.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House Made Of Glass Door That Overlooks The Garden
the house has a huge glass door
that overlooks the garden
i mean it is a house with a glass door
at the ground floor that is overlooking a garden
where the cock feeds on worms with a red hen
that lays eggs on the haystack
near the back window,
oh it is not messy and it is far from what you think
nothing is poetic here
there is simply a day that drags itself to its sunset burial site.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A little Ghost Story
As I was going to bed
I turned out my light
tucked myself in
on a long winter's night
All of a sudden
I heard a door squeak
I thought someone was in my house
so I decided to take a peak
I heard the wind blow hard
and started to shiver with fear
and heard some noises again
but this time I knew I was near
I went into the living room
and noticed my door was opened wide
squeaking back and forth
I laughed so hard I almost cried
So I decided to go back up to my room
When I heard some terrible cries
I rushed to my room real quick
but a ghost stopped me in surprise
I ran and yelled
and I ran outside my house right then
and decided I would never
go back to that house again
At my new house
I turned out the light
you can probably guess
what went on that night
poem by Shaina Lloyd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Penny Candies
Let's search for money!
Couch cushions...
laundry room...
junk drawers...
LOOK EVERYWHERE!
Between the five of us kids
we found about 12 cents.
No food in the house.
Buy dinner with 12 cents?
We have to.
Aha! Penny Candy!
Yeah, we can buy 12
and split them.
GENIUS!
Back then the fruit flavored tootsie rolls
were only a penny (thank God) .
We bundled up, since it was wintertime
in Michigan
and walked to the candy store.
We didn't eat them until we were back home.
That way we could just sit and savor our meal.
That was the most delicious candy
I had ever tasted.
I didn't chew them as they're meant to be eaten.
I just placed it in my mouth
and let it melt
as slowly as possible.
No talking...
I didn't want to waste a second of
this pleasure.
When SHE returns from the bar
she'll wonder (or maybe she won't)
if we ate.
I'm not telling her we ate candy for dinner.
25 years later, I went to visit HER.
Trying to move on
forget the past (it's for the best) .
As soon as I walk into her house...
sitting on the dining room table
is a punchbowl filled
with fruit flavored tootsie rolls.
I didn't mention our ''meal''
25 years earlier.
I wondered if she knew
and this was some cruel joke
to have such a huge bowl
filled with just the thing that would trigger
so many emotions.
Your dressing table in the hall
In the house in fifth avenue
I put a small pink white marble table
below a mirror in the corridor
with a bowl with flowers standing on it
that acted as your dressing table
and as a place of display
where I saw your face smiling back at me
while you were doing your hair
teasing with curling tongs
or reflections of the rows of paintings
with the wood floor fading into the distance
and now that mirror and table
is probably still there,
but you are living alone
in that big house
and will never again
smile back into my face.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Home invasion in Springs
Masked like the black criminals
that robs you of your car
and just there and there promises you death,
they arrived
with a mini bus taxi on the farm,
drove right through the farm gate
and at the front door
jumped out of the kombi
with five steps intruded into the house
to bring death to the farmer,
to rape the wife
and daughter.
The farmer heard the crash
at the gate,
he realized that it was big trouble
heard them in their own language command
to kill, while shot upon shot
was ringing from the front porch
and he though about the obliteration
of his whole family.
His wife was too far away
in the lounge busy with sewing
and he heard his daughter rushing screaming
to her mother
turned about hurried to the gun safe
and got hold of a pump action shotgun
with LG cartridges
and rushed down the hallway.
In the lounge four black criminals
aimed pistols at his daughter and wife
told them to strip themselves bare
and when they did not want to
one said to the others in his language
to kill them
while the farmer was sneaking
closer at the back of the lounge suite.
Just one glance from the farmer
made his wife and daughter fall to the ground
two shots came from the shotgun
lifting two of the gangsters right from their feet
and the other two started shooting
into the ceiling
and the wall of the lounge
and when the farmer fired again
they fled in fear to the outside
turning around to fire at the farmer
and another one dropped in his tracks,
the other ran wounded into the cornfield.
At the start the police, wanted to arrest
the farmer for the murder of the robbers,
but there was more than enough evidence
that it was self-defence,
even the farm workers
were witnesses
about the shooting, threat
of the robbers
and by his actions
the farmer saved himself, his wife and daughter
and the labourers praised him
as a kind and a just man
but at the church
some members regarded the farmer
as a mass killer
who had determined the fate of others with a shotgun.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A glimpse
a glimpse
the half opened door
some would say
a half closed door
it all depends on the
state of mind you are in
well half closed for pessismist
and half opened for optimist
half opened or half closed door
so long as it is open
and not close
a good exercise for the mind
of a story teller, novelist, a film maker
a glimpse at the half closed door
the mind is thrown open
like the kick you would give
a half opened door
so that you and pet cat could
glide through easily
the stories that start coming out
from a glimpse at the half opened door
agatha's murdered corpse lying behind
a stalker, a ghost in the corridor of the mind
from the glimpse of the half closed door
a million possibilities, ideas pouring forth
half closed door, half opened door
whichever way you may say
it is an opened door
a million stories, ideas, possibilities
knock at the door of my mind
a glimpse of the half closed, half opened door
my half closed half opened eyes
open themselves to my ever curious mind
boundless as the universe
inspired by
A Glimpse
A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night-And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going-of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Mr Atkinson's Room
You saw Judy on the south wing
of the old folks nursing home
near to Mr Atkinson's room
carrying towels in her arms
I need to speak to you
you said
what about?
she asked
you playfully bundled her
into Bob Atkinson's room
(he was either
in the lounge
or out down town
hobbling along
for small items of shopping
or at the second-hand
book shop looking
for boy's annuals
of yesteryear
which he read
from cover to cover
before cutting out
the pictures
and sticking them
in albums)
what are you doing?
she said
what if Bob comes in?
he won't
he's out
you said
but what if he does?
she whispered
well unless I was rogering you
to kingdom come
I don't think he'd mind
you said
pressing her 5'5'' body
against the door
and looking into her
grey blue eyes
she gazed
into your eyes
and said
what do you need
to talk to me about?
I think I'm in love with you
you said
she sighed
that's the umpteen time
you've told me that
she said
she dropped the towels
on Bob's bed
and put her arms
around your waist
and drew you closer
you moved your left hand
around her back
and your right hand
on her buttocks
and said
that's because it's
umpteen times worse
or better depending
how you look at it
she kissed you on the lips
and you sensed
her tongue touch yours
her eyes closed
and you closed yours
the room becoming
a far away place
her perfume blending
into the air about you
the ticktock of Bob's
old clock on the bedside table
like some metronome
setting the pace
as if it was all part
of some song or some
deep aspect
of a Bruckner symphony
she pushed you away
and said
it's nearly break time
and people will wonder
why we're not there
and put one
and one together
ok
you said
removing your hand
from her butt
the warmth still there
her eyes still captured
in your inner self
thank you
for the Chagall postcard
I've put it on
my bedside table
along with that photo
you gave me of you
got to go
she said
and opened the door
and walked off
down the passage
you looked around
Bob's room
at the ticking clock
and the blue
candlewick cover
and the picture
of some boy
cut out of some
old annual
chasing a dog
over a field
and Judy's lips
and tongue
seemed still
to be there
in your mouth
and her hand enfolding
your waist and back
and Peter in the pants
going all slack.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
House of Dreams
The house was ready to move right in
When Jane and John were wed,
A wall in the lounge was a TV screen
And another, over their bed,
It was fitted with every gadget
That could open, close or sing,
‘We want it to be the most modern house, '
Said Jane, ‘with everything! '
The washing machine was silent as
It whisked around their clothes,
They ate right out of the dishwasher,
Why stack them, keep it closed,
The carpets muffled their every step
They had a luxurious pile,
‘It's just like walking on clouds, ' said John,
As they wandered round for a while.
The lights were hidden in ceilings
Casting a faint, enchanted glow,
And speakers whispered their music
Following round, wherever they'd go,
They had ipods and pads and things
And touch screens all about,
‘It certainly is the house of dreams
So why would we want to go out? '
John would follow his wife around
The room with his loving eyes,
While Jane would gaze at the garden
Through the shades, with heaving sighs,
‘There's so much love in our little house,
I feel it's almost a dream, '
Said Jane, who stayed in her nightie:
‘Why get dressed, the clothes are clean! '
The oven there in the kitchen had
Six burners, worked on gas,
But Jane never got to turn it on,
‘We have to make it last! '
They sent for take-out, burgers, fries,
For a treat they'd eat Chinese,
‘And that is the beauty of this house,
We can do whatever we please! '
John had installed a system that
Was called ‘The House of Love',
It whispered insidious messages
From the speakers up above,
‘Oh Jane, you are so beautiful, '
It would whisper in the shower,
Told John: ‘you're such a lucky man,
To be let in your lady's bower.'
A speaker out in the mailbox said:
‘Hello there, Mister Man,
I see that you have some letters there,
Just place them in the can.
Or maybe you'd like to take them up
And slide them under the door,
They're busy now, in making love,
We'd be thankful, Man, I'm sure! '
When visitors rang the bell, they'd hear
The sound of a drawn out sigh,
‘John and Jane aren't in today,
But they'll phone you, by and by! '
Both friends and family ceased to call,
Got on with their mundane lives,
‘That pair have nothing they want to share, '
Said the husbands, to their wives.
A year went by in a flash, the bliss
Was almost too much to bear,
‘Why don't you move, ' said Jane one day,
You're still in that same old chair! '
‘You're getting fat, ' said John to Jane,
As he looked at her burgeoning thighs,
Maybe we ought to go out one day,
Go out for some exercise! '
They sat and stared at the oak front door,
They sat and stared for a week,
‘Maybe you're right, we should go out,
If only to take a peek.'
John turned the knob on the door, and pulled
But he found that it wouldn't budge,
‘The wood has swelled, Oh, Merry Hell, '
He swore, ‘we'll wait for a nudge! '
They hoped when a visitor came to call
They would push from the other side,
But no-one called, they'd given up,
Stayed home with their dented pride,
And tempers frayed in the house of love
As the voices whispered on:
‘Oh Jane, you have such beautiful thighs,
Now why did you say that, John? '
The take-out came through a window
Far too small to be climbed on through,
For Jane had the hips of an elephant,
And John had the belly of two,
The Pizza boy was a slender lad
And he'd nudge and he'd nudge in vain,
But the door stayed fast ‘til the very last
Until the firemen came!
The voice said, ‘Hi there, Mister Man,
I can see you're coming on through…'
The firemen called on the local police,
‘See here! Now what do we do? '
For Jane lay drowned in a half filled tub
While John had sat down, and choked,
‘You shouldn't have said that, John, ' it said,
The knife was still stuck in his throat!
13 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Front Row Seat To Hear Ole Johnny Sing
Now you know some fellahs, they want fame and fortune
Yeah, and other fellahs they just wanna swing
But all I wanted all my life
Was a TV set and a truck and a wife
And a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.
Yeah the TV and the truck I got on credit.
And I got that girl with a little old Woolworth ring
And life was warm and life was sweet
But still, it was kinda incomplete
Without a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.
chorus:
Hey, John you walk the line,
Do 'Deelia' one more time
And when you do them Cottonfields
You warm this heart of mine.
So, one day I thought, Hey, I'm gonna do it!
(That's what I said)
So, I mortgaged the farm and pawned her wedding ring.
I sold the gold tooth out of my mouth
And jumped in the pickup and headed South.
For a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.
I hit Nashville cold and wet and hungry.
I said, 'I'm here, bring him on let him do his thing.'
But they told me down at the Old Pit Grill
I'd have to go all the way to Andersonville
For a front row seat to hear ole Jonny sing.
I found his house knocked on the door and it was opened
By a brown-haired girl and a baby with a teethin' ring.
I said 'I seen you somewhere before
but don't stand there and block the door
I want a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.'
(chorus)
She said I'd have to go down to The Opry
And the feller there said I'd have to wait till Spring.
He said, 'We've been sold out for months and months
And this poor insane fellah wants
A front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.'
Well, he said a couple more things, and I started cryin'
And then he laughed at me and that's when I started to swing.
Well I bust through the doors in a roaring rage,
Crawled over the crowd till I reached the stage
For a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.
(chrous)
Then some crazy guard started shootin'
I shot back, and the next thing I know I was winged
and on the floor
When a guy in a voice kinda deep and low
Says, 'Boy that's a mighty long way to go
For a front row seat to hear ANYBODY sing.'
And I guess that judge, he weren't no music lover.
I got fifteen months but that don't mean a thing.
Cos' yesterday in the prison yard
A show come through and HAR! de HAR!
I had a front row seat to hear ole Johnny sing.
(chorus plus some typical Shel ranting and raving)
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!