0089 The top floor
Up that top flight of stairs
whose old, unvarnished wood
scrubs up so well and welcoming,
where it's so quiet at the top of the house
that even the sunlight enjoys the silence,
there's a room kept ready, welcoming,
for every poet I respect:
and yes, for you...
Open each door
and there's such a subtle, same-yet-different,
fragrance in each room - eluding definition,
yet so loved, and so familiar:
a field of wildflowers in the sunlit morning dew,
or grateful after later April shower,
or is it freshly laundered sheets dried in the wind?
a hint of that precious, faintly perfumed scrap of silk
from Grandmother's wedding dress?
A dried rose in a drawer lined with cedarwood?
And just a hint of honey-soaked tobacco,
and once-a-year, and very fine, cigar?
a horse's sweat on crisp and frosty day?
the zinging air on pebbled beach in aftermath of storm?
or freshly-showered skin,
and all the wild and gentle
scents of love?
All that, in these so living rooms,
peaceful, welcoming,
and full of you
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Nowhere Lane
we are...
the ink barely dried
on the page,
the cup chipped
on the windowsill.
wood stacked against
the porch,
the shadows on the
empty swing.
the kiss lost,
and the ring.
red dirt dried
on the shovel,
the old boots left
by the door.
the creaking of the
screen door opening,
the box tied and
packed away.
hunger sap dried
on novel sheets,
the half smoked cigarette
lying in the ashtray.
the sound of the empty room,
in that old house on nowhere lane!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Crying to Sleep
Beams of morning, like
phallic interruptions in virgin sleep, rape the warm
sheets of black - stirring songs of
birds - welcoming another day.
Waves cracking at the breaker of
dawn.
Drops of blood washed up in
cool down of Tiger, welcoming
another day.
Hell, it is painful. To sleep
and to wake, in and out
of fitful consciousness. Aware of
no light, coming in.
Crying myself to
sleep once more.
poem by Benjamin Chew
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As It Was
Ginny loved it
when the time came
For their annual trip
to the seaside
And her father rented
the house with the big garden
that lead onto the sea.
She and her brothers and sister
Looked forward to it
every year and it seemed the sun
shone almost constantly
And the house seemed
as it was the year before
nothing changed nothing new
just the same rooms
and outlook and young Lily the maid
who came each year too
to help their mother
around the house
and watch
the younger children.
Her mother
Was the organiser
the one who seemed most near
to the children who seemed
to know the children’s needs
and wants and tried to keep
her husband happy
and allow him
his space and quiet
which he valued most of all.
Ginny liked it
when the sea was out
and there was plenty of sand
to play on to make a sand castle
with a moat and drawbridge
made from small pieces of driftwood
found on the beach.
But once her mother died
the seaside house
seemed less welcoming
the sea seemed
hardly ever to go out
than it was back again
the sun was less warm
less friendly
and her father
would mope
around the house
moaning and groaning
In his grief and bellowing
at Lily the maid
to do this and do that
making her cry
and only at night
when all were asleep
and Ginny was snuggled
Down in bed did it seem
as it was when her mother
would enter the room
and sit on the bed
and smile and whisper
the words she used to
placing a ghostly hand
on Ginny’s brow
and kiss her cheek.
Ginny remembered the house
By the sea years later
with the yellowy sand
And walking with Lily
the maid
hand in hand.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Warm And Welcoming Light
The light in your window
shines bright every night,
like a warm and welcoming
beacon light,
but I cannot see it.
I am too far away
locked in a prison
for the crimes that I have done.
One day when they release me
home, I am going to run,
to the warm and welcoming
beacon light in your window.
I promise when I get there
I will never leave again,
no more crimes will I commit.
Every bird builds a nest
as cosy and snug as can be.
So I built a home for us
where a fire burns
to make it
warm and welcoming
like a home should be.
I ask myself the question
how long will it be
before I can lay down
in the green grass of my home.
The answer comes back,
but not the one that I want to hear.
It will be many more years
before you can go home.
So I sit in my jail cell
waiting for that day,
when I can again breath
the clear free fresh air,
come running up the path
to see you at the door.
Come to my sweet home
and stay forever more.
22 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Happy Halloween (self composed lyrics)
Hold your blood,
But keep your mask on.
I'll show you the life,
Of a silver beyond.
Apple bobbing,
Just don't feel right.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
Doorbells ringing,
off the hook.
hands in your pockets,
Here comes The Cook.
Blood opened wounds,
Eating flesh tonight.
Here comes Satan,
Time for Flight or Fright.
Hold your blood,
But keep your mask on.
I'll show you the life,
Of a silver beyond.
Apple bobbing,
Just don't feel right.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
Black haired girl,
Makeup on right.
Costume of death, girl,
You make my heart jump high.
Billowing black robes,
And a shadowed face.
Never seen a killer,
Move with such grace.
Hold your blood,
But keep your mask on.
I'll show you the life,
Of a silver beyond.
Apple bobbing,
Just don't feel right.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
Hold your blood,
But keep your mask on.
I'll show you the life,
Of a silver beyond.
Apple bobbing,
Just don't feel right.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
Farewell to the Sun,
Hey, to the welcoming night.
poem by Satan's Sibling
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A Litany
recall the years
what do you remember? those baggy pants of college years
and leather belts tight around your waist
a grassy soccer field
some husky men playing their games
a bench where five women are sitting
each hand with ice cream melting on each cone
the corridor where she waits for you
and the corner where you evade her gaze
the stairs leading you to the fourth floor
and the silent people who dwell there
the harsh microphone on the first year
welcoming you from that far mountain
a room filled with books and notes
a lampshade that blinks without end
a coconut bed with bugs that bite him
as he sleeps soundly without minding
some empty rooms on the left wing
teeth are gnashing there and your silence
tiptoeing feet of drunken roomates
hiding the empty bottles under their beds
it is a litany of images of the past
like some fireflies at night i shall let them go
i close this jar and there is nothing inside it
nothing to entice at all but just to remember
and then forget and then i move on
my feet with its new shoes are always ready to go
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spring afternoon
A spring morning – well,
I only need to say the words?
I’ll picture mine, you picture yours –
champagne bubbling in the blood and in the mind,
hopes and possibilities flooding freshly in..
but a spring mid-afternoon… like today, like now:
a subtle balance of the elements;
the sunlight bathes the room, but gently,
with its promise; yet,
there’s a timeless peace with it
that’s like a life surveyed; yet
free of thought, of comparison, or of regret:
the six loved paintings that adorn the walls
bought for a song, when art was like a song –
they love the gentle sunlight, and it in turn loves them;
five artists painting their sunlit peace, their happiness;
(two very different ones from the man
who lives so humbly halfway up
the mountain hills he rambles every day):
three oils; one gouache; one watercolour; and one pastel;
they all but two have clouds in them
as they’re all landscapes;
one that hasn’t, has a haze as if
the painter’s painting the summer wind, in those high hills..
the other is a cloudless morning’s peace,
the bend of a river in mid-France;
the river…it cannot be, just painted oil?
it’s water seen as by a pure clear soul…
and the clouds – caught in an impossibility of time,
play out an endless drama of the elements;
timeless in the peace of, now, a slightly later
springtime afternoon; almost with a touch...
but how could perfection ever regret
its own departure?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The House
For many years, the house
stood empty and forlorn.
The windows had been boarded
preventing the sunlight coming in.
No welcoming mat lay by the door;
laughter was a thing of the past
as spiders spun their webs
within the gloomy silence.
The house stood empty
abandoned by most living things
and there were those who said
spooky goings on went on
after night fell in there.
No one could prove it
because no one would stay there.
Only the fool hardy
would ever enter after dark.
The paintwork pealed
and the front door creaked
if someone dared to open it.
They say the house is haunted,
but no one knew
by what or who.
The house began to crumble
as each season came to pass.
The glory of its birth
lay somewhere in the past
and now the crumbling walls
would never reveal
any of the secrets that it knew.
Then a fire started
by a hand unseen
and the house finally died
within its own funeral pyre
15 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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Empty Nest
Our house this night is full of life,
both kids up in their rooms.
We're safe and warm from the harrowing storm
with its lightening streaks and booms.
Yet soon I know, both have to go,
to school, to work, to life.
Then this will be an empty nest
with just me and my wife.
How do birds feel, when, freshly fledged,
their young depart forever.
Do they sing more somberly
when the chicks are not together?
We're creatures of habit, like those birds
I see when we're in the park.
I'll catch myself gazing up the stairs
when both their rooms are dark.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Marriage
Marriage for Esme began as a wide open room
with windows that let in the sunshine
and curtains so light and airy
they floated on the breeze.
Her husband's blue eyes would sparkle
with just a hint of mischief
and fun that they intrigued her,
made him special.
Then in the second year on her birthday
it seemed the room had grown dusty,
the curtains seemed dull,
the windows small.
And in the third year, without a doubt
the sun had gone down on her
and the room held a chill
like her aching heart.
By the fifth year, she'd aged,
her eyes had shadows, her skin had paled
and the room seemed small
with no windows at all.
She had shriveled, was withdrawn,
she'd sit in the corner of the room humming,
rocking back and forth, back and forth,
back and forth........
poem by Ruth Walters
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Last Spring
THIS morning at the door
I heard the Spring.
Quickly I set it wide
And, welcoming,
'Come in, sweet Spring,' I cried,
'The winter ash, long dried,
Waits but your breath to rise
On phantom wing.'
A brown leaf shivered by,
A soulless thing--
My heart in quick dismay
Forgot to sing--
Twisted and grim it lay,
Kin to the ghost-ash gray,
Dead, dead--strange herald this
Of jocund Spring!
I spurned it from the door.
I longed that Spring
Should come with song and glow
And rush of wing,
Not this, not this!--But O
Dead leaf, a year ago
You were the dear first-born
Of Hope and Spring!
poem by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
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Our Cocker Spaniel
Her name was Agatha, Aggy for short,
More human than a dog, a real good sport,
A friend, a partner and companion too,
Welcoming everyone both old and new.
Her tail would wag a thousand times a day,
Greeting each person met along the way,
So excited by each days events,
Full of energy and using every sense.
She lived, so very happy and content,
Enjoying 'home' and 'shop' life, free from rent,
Dried apricots, her one great loved reward,
But when asleep, 'my goodness' how she snored.
She reached the ripe old age of 12 years plus,
And even at the end there was no fuss,
She drifted very peacefully to sleep,
Of her, we have such memories to keep.
To us, she was a very loved canine,
A superhuman, Oh, so very fine,
We'll miss her so, she filled each day with pleasure,
With happiness and love beyond all measure.
So farewell, Aggy, Agatha in full,
There'll be no more pats or floppy ears to pull,
Old friend, old pal, old partner, you'll remain,
Within our hearts, until we meet again.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The lake of metaphor
and perhaps I came to poetry too late
to dive, a slimmish youth,
innocent as youth was or is
into the rich waters of the lake of metaphor
fed distantly by mountain springs,
welcoming in its wateriness,
chilling too like a demand for respect,
welcoming and chilling as a life;
a few strokes and already the green bank
and pile of crumpled clothes discarded
quickly distant, and here
in the middle of the lake, the sky
has opened out as if it were
some rival to a mountain-top
and the hands press against
the resistances of language, the palms
flat as between praise and surrender,
cleaving a passage to the depth
and then the shore of metaphor; and
emerging, the sunlight
catching the sparkling water droplets,
the skin shivering but invigorated,
the mind full of life
like a poem rich in metaphor.
Older now,
waiting as in the paintings of Saint Jerome
at his desk walled in by books,
pen poised, eyes uplifted,
spirit, rich, yet
mind not full, but waiting
for the grace of metaphor
like the brushing of a white dove's wing
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The new bedroom
The new bedroom,
which I built in my head
for what seemed an endless time waits,
with full boxes for her return.
There is no furniture yet,
though ordered and on its way,
the room expectant, vacant, pauses;
until it will be pushed and pulled
into welcoming display.
How long I have dreamt,
since they were small
that they would all,
have their special space to come,
when life rained or sunshine shone
and they felt the need for home;
for I never had that place to come.
Now, it is nearly done
and through the window,
beyond the weathered fence
where the rambling rose and ivy grow;
the high field waves
with summer grass and buttercups.
poem by Diana Rosser
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A Bath Of Love
Like freshly mown hay
Was smelling your skin,
Like grass waiting to be mown
And like cuneiform signs
Freshly carved in stone.
Your lips had the taste of the wind.
The words coming out of us were still unbroken,
They were bumping into each other
Like those clouds full of rain.
I kissed your arch, your bone, your mouth
And your sigh
From the eyes to the foot's sole.
We were in a bath of love
Like two children
In a water trough.
I felt my milk springing out
Of my breasts.
We were like the sun and the month
Fallen to the earth
In a world of ignorance.
You slipped inside of me
Like a water flowing
Among the rough stones
Or like the honey
In a broken hive.
Your taste was like honey
And the smell of your skin
Was like freshly mown grass.
Your crystal slip was curved.
I felt my soul like a stone
As someone was painfully digging in it
Cuneiform signs.
I started to scream your name.
Yes, your name was inferred from happiness.
I began to scream his name.
He came into being
From your name
He started to be existent inside of us.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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To Aunt Rose
Aunt Rose—now—might I see you
with your thin face and buck tooth smile and pain
of rheumatism—and a long black heavy shoe
for your bony left leg
limping down the long hall in Newark on the running carpet
past the black grand piano
in the day room
where the parties were
and I sang Spanish loyalist songs
in a high squeaky voice
(hysterical) the committee listening
while you limped around the room
collected the money—
Aunt Honey, Uncle Sam, a stranger with a cloth arm
in his pocket
and huge young bald head
of Abraham Lincoln Brigade
—your long sad face
your tears of sexual frustration
(what smothered sobs and bony hips
under the pillows of Osborne Terrace)
—the time I stood on the toilet seat naked
and you powdered my thighs with calamine
against the poison ivy—my tender
and shamed first black curled hairs
what were you thinking in secret heart then
knowing me a man already—
and I an ignorant girl of family silence on the thin pedestal
of my legs in the bathroom—Museum of Newark.
Aunt Rose
Hitler is dead, Hitler is in Eternity; Hitler is with
Tamburlane and Emily Brontë
Though I see you walking still, a ghost on Osborne Terrace
down the long dark hall to the front door
limping a little with a pinched smile
in what must have been a silken
flower dress
welcoming my father, the Poet, on his visit to Newark
—see you arriving in the living room
dancing on your crippled leg
and clapping hands his book
had been accepted by Liveright
Hitler is dead and Liveright’s gone out of business
The Attic of the Past and Everlasting Minute are out of print
Uncle Harry sold his last silk stocking
Claire quit interpretive dancing school
Buba sits a wrinkled monument in Old
Ladies Home blinking at new babies
last time I saw you was the hospital
pale skull protruding under ashen skin
blue veined unconscious girl
in an oxygen tent
the war in Spain has ended long ago
Aunt Rose
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Delray My Beach in Florida So Real Estate of Mine...
Paradise is the word,
no other to be called,
a beach like no other
The Sun here is to Shy
Shy! My SunShine
Delray, Delray Beach!
The Paradise...So easy to find...
So dear to me, for so long in my past,
You the Beach I desired...
And there you Are,
Always, day and night,
Beautiful Delray,
Open as no other heart
Safe, protected, Welcoming...
Love, My Beach, My Delray,
The City I call Home!
poem by Florida Angel
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The Wedding Day
Love has such a great way of growing,
Often by leaps and hounds the lovers say
loving hearts has a way of knowing,
With joy she heads to her wedding day..
She puts her wedding-gown away,
As tenderly as one might close,
With kissing lips and finger-tips,
And the petals of a red rose..
She puts her wedding-gown away,
The quiet place was all a stir
With vague perfume that filled the room,
Cedar and lavender and fragrant thoughts of her..
She puts her wedding- gown away,
Yet lingered with its whiteness gleamed
As one above a sleeping Love,
oh, thus it was so she seemed..
As she walked in beauty down the aisle in the room,
When it was time for her to kiss the groom
The wedding bells rang until she was out of sight,
The wind appeared and the white doves were in flight..
To enjoy the every moment that will come,
There's not really much more I need to say
Two hearts would rejoice at one home,
Having heart-picked their own 'wedding day'...
poem by Arijit Mandal
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0068 The Connoisseur (2)
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?
even the doorhandle, gently turned,
seems to speak a message
before the room entered, the first breath taken
of the room’s own air
and on the table, the grey-green vase seems
to be the host; the silent messenger: the furniture
somehow eternal in its order; every line and curve
within the room speaking of some
divine geometry; the shaded sunlight seems
to fall on tiptoe, touch in silent praise;
the air, to be refined; and the silence –
what does the silence say unspoken
as if it holds some god-smiled word,
some solemn laughter, about what
is there and is not there, has made
of this room, this ordinary room,
a shrine where one can worship without form
oneself?
the vase too holds itself both
open and reserved; its perfect curves
the subtle decisions of a history
of centuries, of generations
of human hands; of things made
for oneself, for others, for all else
where all else is known;
silent the vase; the room full of its sound.
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?
you; moving forward with respectful quiet step
to touch this grey-green
Chinese vase
poem by Michael Shepherd
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~Season's Masterpiece~
Fragrant swarms the pollen
Garnishing eaved roof tops
Dizzying aroma's mist o'er
Emerald veiled dales-
Gentle melding of fields O'
Flora-enibriating smells O'
Freshly picked clover
Overwhelming to us...
A dalliance or two while
Traveling a pebbled honed path
Comes awake a hint O' sweet Jasmine
Electri-citing my renewed senses
Following closely in on the tail O'
A moon beam...
My heart 'tis dancing through air
Dawn much like the twiglight
(the entering and exiting of light)
Revering blue skies coming and going-
Interrupted mid-day by a rainbow erecting
A full arch across the horizon...
Remanents O' Spring shower
Complete with sparrows singing in unison
There cannot be any question as to why
This season 'tis called Spring-
It 'tis in the air-in our blood
Just as day ends in the West
And begins itself in the East
'Tis a mere fraction-
of God's Masterpiece
poem by Theodora Onken
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