The Book
Standing at the door, to your room, I lean against the frame,
I am frozen, I whisper your name.
The chair at the desk, where you always sat, to work
is in place, unmoved, in the dark.
I sigh, holding my breathe, I switch on the light
I say your name, adjust my eyes to the sight.
Everything is in its place, unmoved, just waiting
on your return, digital clock on desk blinking
in even rhythm, as time moves on,
unaware, uncaring that you are gone.
on the wall, family pictures of the past
moments in time, captured, held fast.
Afraid to break the silence, to enter the room, I wait
and for a moment I pretend you are just late,
that I will turn as I hear your footsteps on the stair
and see you standing, smiling, blue eyes full of care.
and then, that moment, that hope, has past
one heavy foot forward, I enter the room at last.
An inspiration, to me, to all of us, friends and family
you dealt with your illness, with strength and dignity,
I can still hear your laughter, your silly jokes,
remembering your love for books and gadgets.
reminiscing, I notice on your desk, a book
lying open, page marked, I move to have a look
As I read I start to smile, your last message,
the lyrics from Life of Brian, a circled passage
'Always look on the Bright side of Life'
for my children and my wife.
poem by Julie Duff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Distorted Beauty
She was a small girl, the proof being the tiny soccer cleats
lying on the floor, and the low down marks on the wall
marking her height; and the pictures on her wall show
she is the only brunette in a family of blondes; the belts
lying on her floor had extra holes poked in them
to accommodate for her unnatural skinniness;
her clothes consisted of dark colors meant to keep
her constantly hidden in the background.
Her room was always messy, she was never
organized enough to keep it clean; and pictures
had been painted onto the walls as proof of
her artistic talent; she did not have any clothes
with horizontal stripes, she was too afraid
they might make her look fat; Her school
books are scattered on her desk, all with many
dog-eared and well-worn pages.
In the morning she sleeps in just long enough
to rush out the door without breakfast; at lunch
she claims she isn’t feeling well enough to eat;
when time for dinner comes she hides herself in
her room; everyday she wastes away a little more,
and yet she is still not happy with her weight;
however, she refuses to admit her problem and
that she needs help.
poem by Ashley Flock
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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
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Missing You
It's been a while since I saw your smile,
Never seen your face but I felt your grace,
From a distance your gaze,
Your eyes, they warm my heart,
What a great place to start!
In my heart, always,
Always a place for you,
A quiet space,
What a beautiful place!
Lost in time, no rhythm nor rhyme,
Until at last,
We find the peace we deserve,
To live, breathe and to serve,
So when you think of me,
Remember to feel free,
Live life through freedoms door,
Know that I will love you evermore,
I will see you in a quiet room,
A dark corner where you light the gloom,
In a moment of silence, a quiet breath,
Moves us one step further from death,
Sometimes I feel there can be no end,
As long as our hearts mend,
A soul that is your friend,
Then the light of love will know no end.
26 June 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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Swansong
“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour? ”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door.
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor.”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak.
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”
“Where do you lead me
Erato? Oh! The study
What for may I ask? ”
He sits at his desk with his pen in hand
Writing vigorously on a tablet
Almost as if it were by some command.
His outline cast a dreamy silhouette
On the study wall caused by the moonbeam
Shinning through a curtained opened window.
“He writes with eyes closed in his dream”
“Be still! He calls out the name, Erato”
“Erato, you say
This love poem is my last?
How so, may I ask? ”
The poets hand stops writing a moment
Than briefly begins again then desists
Completely; lays the pen down and laments
While rising from his chair clenching both fists
Then begins to walk toward his bedroom
“Should we read what the old bard has written? ”
“Not now! Let’s follow him back to his room
“But...” “Please keep quiet! He speaks once again.”
“Erato I have
Finished what you asked of me
This is my swansong.”
The old poet reached the side of his bed
And gently slid under the bed covers
A smile appears than wanes. “Is the bard dead? ”
“Yes! He’s gone where all the poet lovers’
Always go: with the lovely Erato”
“I hear a lyre! Do your ears hear the same? ”
“Yes! It plays for another poet’s soul
That enters Erato’s love poems domain”
*******************************
Standing at the old poets study desk
The two men look down upon the tablet
And begin to read the verses expressed
This saddest of nights both will not forget
My Swansong
In life all things must always reach its end
My life is no exception to this rule
True love was writing verses with this pen
And know for sure I had not been a fool
Love was all I had to offer in life
Expressed in many forms of poetry
Each I shared with my friends and loving wife
Intent was never a commodity
My time has come; the flame of life grows dim
And everything I have seen in this light
Was through the eyes of love I owe to Him
My hand grows weak, my effort ebbs tonight
I see your face, your myrtle crown and lyre
You strum the strings, sweet music to my ears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The poetess, the moon...and the woods Pt1
A tear traced a path on her cheek in the moonlight
As her lips brushed the brow of her sleeping child
She stood still for a moment, with eyes closed tightly
Corners of lips pulled up… in a winsome smile
Strode heavily to the open window
stared out into the woods, soft lit by the moon
Then with a sigh pulled down the window
And quietly tiptoed out of the room
Glanced in at her husband, long asleep in their bed
And in her mind gave him a kiss on the top of his head
Then sat at her desk and finished her poem
Sat back and reviewed it… one last time
It was about her life… and about her home
And about the glow of the woods in the moonshine
She nodded her head… as if in agreement
With the words that she had carefully, composed
Her finger touched “enter” with determined intent
Then her whole body slumped in repose
From the corners of her eyes, she saw the moon rise
Oe’r the woods from out of her window
A teardropp fell softly to her desk as she stood
And walked through the door for the very last time
She looked up at the moon and then strode into the woods
She had posted her last poem…her very last rhyme
poem by David Whalen
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Odium
The Odium
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collection was, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
poem by Oskar Hansen
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This Morning
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to give
Nothing more in you
Nothing else to have or hold
Nothing left, but time to go
Time to go
Years go by
Didn't really say that much at all
And moments just fly
Didn't ever really touch at all
Weeks always run down
Didn't really get that close at all
And days, days fall out
Didn't ever really know at all
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
She stares at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room
So mean and so white
I stare at her in this room as she stares into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to ask
Nothing more of you
Nothing else to share or show
Nothing left but time to go
In his eyes as we turn no eternity of life
In his eyes as we turn no infinity of why
In his eyes as we turn no beautiful goodbye
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
(spoken:) I couldn't understand too much of what was being said
In a matter of minutes
Peacefully so slow
I had to think to breathe
My heart burst
We moved in silence really slowly away from the world
As we drove a strange silence
That moment
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Days fall out
Weeks always run down
Moments just fly
Weeks go by
And then we're here
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
I stare at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room so mean and so white
You stare at me in this room as I stare into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing more to take
Nothing more from you
Nothing else to need or know
There's nothing left at all...but time to go
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0009 Favorite Poem
and you can’t remember much
about the first time you read it except
that it held you to the end, but most of all
this one line, which seemed to hold
the key to the whole poem
as if you were opening the closet of your mind
to bring out something which you knew was there
but instead something way at the back
called to you and you remembered
a moment from way back you thought
you had forgotten
and then you read the poem again
in company with the poet and
yes that’s it, and the two of you
became friends for life, almost
related.
So, now you’ve read all their poems,
feel some more than others but
as if you wrote them all in the same room
where you read them together
and you wait for their new book with
a sorta family pride
and like family,
you leave the poems for a spell,
grow up a little, then
come back to visit -
they mean more;
can it be,
you've both grown?
each time you come back to them
you carry them more close to you
in fact you feel that you could write
poems very much like theirs
as if you’d inherited, too,
the family gift
and though you wouldn’t of course
seek them out in person except
in a reading where you’d
have to share their warmth
with the rest of their extended family
but not say much since
you are a, well, close relative,
if you happened to be driving a route
not far from them, you’d detour,
park a little distance from their house,
but have it in your sight,
hope you might catch a movement,
wait a few minutes, then
start the car with almost a sigh
half relieved that you didn’t have to try
on their cautiously polite doorstep
to find words to say
you love them in their words,
which you almost wrote together,
lived them together;
love them like life itself,
love them
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Against The Evidence
As I reach to close each book
lying open on my desk, it leaps up
to snap at my fingers. My legs
won’t hold me, I must sit down.
My fingers pain me
where the thick leaves snapped together
at my touch.
All my life
I’ve held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning
their pages and straightening out
their creases. I use books
almost apologetically. I believe
I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where theirs leave off
and mine begin. I am so much alone
in the world, I can observe the stars
or study the breeze, I can count the steps
on a stair on the way up or down,
and I can look at another human being
and get a smile, knowing
it is for the sake of politeness.
Nothing must be said of estrangement
among the human race and yet
nothing is said at all
because of that.
But no book will help either.
I stroke my desk,
its wood so smooth, so patient and still.
I set a typewriter on its surface
and begin to type
to tell myself my troubles.
Against the evidence, I live by choice.
poem by David Ignatow
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As One Listens To The Rain
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
poem by Octavio Paz
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Pitch Black
You awake from a nightmare
and find the room pitch black
You notice your not on a bed
instead, a cold slab of concrete
Where am I you think
you try to move your legs
But their chained to the concrete
you begin to panic
Outside, you hear children laughing
you think of your own, and start to cry
You hear footsteps pounding up stairs
you yank the chain, hoping it would break
Something hard hits what could be a door
you stop yanking the chain to listen
You hear two voices behind the assumed door, Males
their planning something but you cant understand
Your hear a squeak, sounds like a door knob
you wait and see a line of light
A dark figure stands in the light
but his shadow blocks his face
Your heart beats faster, the room gets hotter
you feel your hands about to shake
He mumbles something as he drags in an unkown figure
the light turns on, and you see what it is
poem by Cree Stewart
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The Lonely Room
Tiptoe around the room.
What is it that is found?
Silence, except for the clock that's ticking
nothing else is around.
An empty room with nothing in it,
only the clock that ticks the minute
in this lonely room.
Why was the clock left behind
with not a soul to tell the time?
It was on the mantelpiece
with nobody to hear it chime.
Was it left as a reminder?
I think it would have been kinder
to remove it from the room.
Left alone, it had no purpose.
Who could hear it now?
Ghosts from the past that once lived here
that have taken a vow
to listen to the clock's every minute
in the room with nothing in it
but the ghosts and the time.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dreamin - Escape
If I close my eyes I see your face
And Im not without you
If I try hard and concentrate
I can still hear you speak
I picture myself in your room by the chair
Youre smoking a cigarette
If I close my eyes I can see your face
Youre saying, I missed you
Dreamin, Im always dreamin
If I close my eyes I can smell your perfume
You look and say, hi baby
If I close my eyes pictures from china
Still hang from the wall
I hear the dog bark I turn and say
What were you saying?
I picture you in the red chair
Inside the pale room
Dreamin, Im always dreamin
You sat in your chair with a tube in your arm
You were so skinny
You were still making jokes
I dont know what drugs they had you on
You said, I guess this is not the time
For long term investments
You were always laughing
But you never laughing at me
They say in the end the pain was so bad
That you were screaming
Now you were no saint but you deserved
Better than that
From the corner I watched them removing things
From your apartment
But I can picture you red chair and pale room
Inside my head
If I close my eyes I see your face
And Im not without you
If I try hard and concentrate I can hear your voice saying
Who better than you
If I close my eyes I cant believe that
Im here without you
Inside your pale room your empty red chair
And my head
Dreamin, Im always dreamin
Dreamin, Im always dreamin
Dreamin, Im always dreamin
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Having Written Poems Late At Night...
I see her turning off the light
on the table. I can see gray.
I hear her
folding the books and
crumpling the papers
perhaps her drafts
of a letter or
a composition.
I see her stand, leave the chair and the table,
and i hear the closing of the door.
everything turns dark.
i imagine her lying in bed
she closes her eyes
i know that the light inside the room
is open.
as usual the TV is on with no one watching.
i just know it. It is a habit
and it has become a practice and that
when i follow, i must be felt
when i turn off the light
and when i turn off the TV.
I know she is awake.
But i do not mind
we all pretend we are alive and that
we want to sleep.
we fall on the same mistake.
we sleep always late, and we do not talk about it.
i put my hands around her body.
she tilts her body and finds her own direction towards the path to
her own dreams
not mine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Memorial Day Weekend
Family and friends file in the room as they arrive
Laughter is shared
Tears of joy flow freely from many
I feel the warmth of family love wrap around me
We are silly and fun
But nobody cares
We're having too good a time to care
This is what Memorial Day Weekend is all about
It's about being with family
And not being afraid to actually have fun
It's about being yourself and no one else
poem by Candace Johnson
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Captured Memories
Captured memories from the past
At the Oklahoma History Center
You’ll be surprised and impressed
The very moment you enter
It’s such a treasured museum
One you will truly enjoy
Early railroad pictures
That has so many stories
A one room school house
Really takes you back
Railroad in the early stages
So different from the Amtrak
Teepees from the past as well
Oil once called Black gold
An oh, the stories and the tales
So many to be told
So take some time and visit
The Oklahoma History Center
You’ll be so glad you did, folks
The very moment that you enter!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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My Dark Room
Time has ended so I lay
The end to a very painful day
I lay silent with nothing to say
Here in my dark room
With eyes open I can hardly see
Staring at the ceiling thinking of me
Wondering in the future what I will be
Here in my dark room
Will I still have my dark room
The place where there is peace
Or will I feel deceased
In a new dark room
But maybe when the night turns to shine
I won’t feel so but feel fine
Until night when I come back and whine
Here is my dark room
Now it is late I can’t see no more
My arm falls and drops to the floor
The liquid dreams in my head start to pour
Here is my dark room
poem by Paul Celano
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A Poem For the Everyday Routine College Student
Days roll by with endless work here
I know it is not much as it appears
But if you were sitting here, if you were me
With this clock ticking by you would see
That it truly isn’t easy
“All work and no play makes jack a dull boy”
Same here goes for me; where there’s no company or joy
Alone with a desk and a notebook filled with paper
And it’s true, the silence makes it harder
Music should fill the air
Laughter should break out everywhere
There should be dancing all around
Not this room, empty of all sound
Only a couple more days left
Although this work is committing theft
So now I think it’s time to close the book
And end the work that has always been the crook
Let me enjoy the next few days
I’ll go outside and enjoy the sun’s rays
Goodbye chair, notebook, and boredom
Hello to a new day with its new freedom
Written: November 18,2010
poem by Ryan Collins
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The Old School House At Ruby
In old school house yard at Ruby a dark brown shorthorn cow
And leghorn pullets cackling beneath the cypress bough
This school must hold good memories and memories live somehow
Here in their lunch hour children played but where are those children now? .
The old school room now a tea room has undergone some change
And if past pupil came back here he'd find the place quite strange
Where is the desk he sat at? the blackboard is not there
And time has brought change to Ruby as it has done elsewhere.
The old school house at Ruby a memory of past years
Here Ruby children sang and laughed and shed their fledgeling tears
And do those children of Ruby who now live far away
In dreams return to old school house and Ruby childhood day? .
The old school house at Ruby a memory of the past
And time has brought about some change and time bring change too fast
This school must hold good memories and memories live somehow
Here in their lunch hour children played but where are those children now? .
poem by Francis Duggan
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The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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