Dying of non-expression
discuss me flat
carpets and a doormat
fill me fridge
buy me chairs
fix all repairs
love me so much
take me to lunch
let me get it straight
i am not great
not grateful at all
regardless of chairs
repairs and all the cares
when my hosts are gone
i just want to be alone
guess i'm my best
household guest
deep in the night
turning on the light
and finally begin
to write
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Related quotes
Walking Tables
How do tables walk as one?
And why do chairs seem to run?
How my rest is desired, and how
Do I kick in the air for relaxation?
My chimney is found with the soot
Of a black utterance, as seemly as light;
The light travels up and down the world,
With smoke, crime is committed, like walking
Chairs and turning tables, this world is one.
With this house may I live alone,
Where wolves like criminals detest you.
Anyone walked a long distance, anyway,
Justice must be allowed, and searched
By the home and heaven.
How do tables and chairs move?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Who repairs not his gutter repairs his whole house.
Beach Chairs
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the setting sun
holding hands and reminiscing
how it all begun
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the ships out on the sea
holding hands and smiling
together we're meant to be
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching people walking past
holding hands and knowing
that our love will always last
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the waves along the shore
holding hands we realize
our love is stronger than before
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the changing tide
holding hands with happiness
to be by each others side
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the sunrise
holding hands with tears of joy
there are no more good-byes
poem by Joyce Ebrecht
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Reflection 0.3
when loneliness is overwhelming
miracles happen
tables speak to chairs and
chairs are amazed to their
new actions
the roof cannot be stopped
telling something to the floor
and the garden too and the fence
and the stair and all of them here
entangled in a relationship of such closeness
that you begin to stop thinking about how to end
and lose yourself
presences are born and they begin to speak
and it is you who has become one inanimate human figure
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Winebibber
Bits and pieces,
To get deeper into it!
Bit, it was hidden at first;
And now, it is actually telling on you.
Winebibber, we wee, rib, be, bib, in, Ben;
But try to go over there to pay your taxes!
For, you are part of the solution over here in this town.
Pairs, repairs, stairs, chairs, hairs, fairs, lairs;
And like the great City divided into three parts!
But, this act of yours is now telling on you.
Winebibber, wine, brew, new, beer, win, Webb!
But to get deeper with your acts;
For, you are always seen in the dark hanging around with girls.
Winebibber, bee, were, bribe, web, rein, been;
With the acts of your hands to catch up many eyes! !
But, this act of yours is now telling on you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The old Watch Maker in my schooldays
One day I took my Grandpa's 'Damas' pocket watch for repairs
As he complains it goes ten minutes faster and he doesn't want to die soon!
I call him uncle who does watch repairs in his cubicle in the shopping complex.
When I entered I saw he's watching the Sun a long time
And laughed continuously.
I asked; 'What's wrong with you uncle? '
Then he started the story;
'You must know this sonny, I was really amazed of my next door spinster those days and she's in her naughty forties!
You cannot see her blue eyes straight away a minute
And you feel like burning inside yourself.
You know what happened at last?
My wife put up a parapet wall but ten feet high from her father's pension
As I was unemployed.
Afterwards she has moved to another place and I heard no more.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Thw Musical Lady
The Musical Lady
I knew of a pavement café where tables and chairs were painted
in different colours, this to lend ambience in an otherwise dreary
street. A young lady, a student at the music conservatorium, came
here for lunch and always insisted on sitting on the same chair,
a rosa one; she was pretty in stern way, long black dress, flat shoes,
plain long hair and big glasses, waiters were happy to oblige her.
This caused jalousie amongst other chairs that wanted her to sit on
them too. In the night they ganged up on the rosa one, upended it
and scratched badly. The owner thought it was the work of vandals,
put the damage chair in the store room, but when the musical lady
came she insisted to sit on her chair damaged or not. Other seats
felt bad realizing it was not the rosa’s fault but the idiosyncrasy of
the artist, so in the night the spruced up the rosa till it looked as new.
But now the pianist didn’t want it, not the same as before, she said
and sat on a yellow chair. Feeling a miffed the gleaming new looking
seat said to itself: “No big shake she had a narrow, cold bum anyway.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dumping Many Buckets
A building done,
With no retraint...
Peels the paint.
And cracks the stairs.
And those staring in despair,
Are not there to tile the roof.
When all moved in...
Everything 'appeared'...
To glisten with gloss and be good as new.
Now they are inside,
Dumping out the buckets...
From a dripping done,
Through the roof.
Yes...
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
Nobody cares about repairs!
No one aware of repairs is prepared.
And those staring in despair,
Are not there to tile the roof.
When all moved in...
Everything 'appeared'...
To glisten with gloss and be good as new.
A building done,
With no retraint...
Peels the paint.
And cracks the stairs.
Nobody cares about repairs!
No one aware of repairs is prepared.
Now they're inside,
Dumping out the buckets...
From a dripping done,
Through the roof.
Yes...
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
And with a crying sigh,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
No one has driven by,
Watching them dump buckets...
And pretending there's no leaking from their roof
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Destiny Is Cruel (Quatrain)
I would love to be
In a world of white
Where the days are long
And there is no night
Where we could cuddle
And be all alone
Without any cares
Or even a phone
We could pass the day
Writing poesy
Where you could be you
And I could be me
There is more to love
Than physical touch
Or cooking breakfast
Or packing a lunch
I'm sure you know this
You've been there done that
Have you ever been
A soiled doormat
Destiny is cruel
Keeping us apart
I hope that one day
You'll complete my heart
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Not Your Doormat!
I'm not your doormat; I'm so much more than that.
I'm not your doormat; I deserve so much more respect than that.
I'm not your doormat; I'm so much stronger than that.
I'm not your doormat and I'm most certainly not your slave.
I'm not your doormat; I'm a human being.
I'm not your doormat; a dog to call when you too lazy to do it yourself.
You may think I'm weak but inside of me is a warrior that is stronger than you thought possible.
One day I will have the power to say no and stop kissing the feet of the idiots that constantly kick me.
Working my butt off and getting nothing in return I'm sick of it and refuse to stand for it any longer!
I'm not your doormat; a place to wipe your dirt on.
poem by Francesca Marie
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How Grey The World Was
How grey the world was with its memories,
How dark even this gay room where the motes run!
How black these curtains, thick with murder cries,
These chairs, this floor with things slain in the sun!
'Twas here I strangled love, a year ago,
And hid it 'neath these pillows drenched in blood,
As a mad mother her sweet babe of woe,
Too strong to die, too fair, which shrieks aloud.
How black and bare and bitter the world was
Just yesterday! To--day, this room, dear Heaven,
What laughters fill it! what light footsteps pass!
See, the white chairs dance round me pleasure--driven,
And these sad pillows, where I wept, blab out
The news that you are here, in psalm and shout!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A great many open minds should be closed for repairs.
quote by Toledo Blade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The King Of The Chairs
no matter how qualified
and competent is the king of the chairs
to the mind of the table
the king of the chairs
will always remain as only one
of its serving knights.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Light Up My Life
(Joe Brooks)
So many nights I sit by my window
Waiting for someone to sing me his song
So many dream I kept deep inside me
Alone in the dark but now you've come along
You light up my life
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days
And fill my nights with song
Rollin' at sea, adrift on the water
Could it be finally I'm turning for home?
Finally, a chance to say hey, I love you
Never again to be all alone
You light up my life
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days
And fill my nights with song
Oh you light up my life
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days
And fill my nights with song
It can't be wrong
When it feels so right
'Cause you, you light up my life.....
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Light Up My Life
So Many Nights I'd Sit By My Window
Waiting For Someone To Sing Me His Song
So Many Dreams I Kept Deep Inside Me
Alone In The Dark But Now You've Come Along
And You Light Up My Life
You Give Me Hope To Carry On
You Light Up My Days
And Fill My Nights With Song
Rollin' At Sea Adrift On The Waters
Could It Be Finally I'm Turning For Home
Finally A Chance To Say 'hey I Love You'
Never Again To Be All Alone
And You Light Up My Life
You Give Me Hope To Carry On
You Light Up My Days
And Fill My Nights With Song
You You Light Up My Life
You Give Me Hope To Carry On
You Light Up My Days
And Fill My Nights With Song
It Can't Be Wrong When It Feels So Right
'cause You You Light Up My Life
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes from You Light Up My Life
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three's A Crowd
We are sat in a pub, eating our lunch,
When, from inside of me, I have a hunch,
That three of us are sat at the table there,
Despite there being only two occupied chairs.
My companion is busy texting on their phone,
So I carry on, as if I was sitting on my own.
Occasionally, I'm given a degree of attention,
But it is glancing, and way too brief to mention.
I am feeling annoyed and pretty put out:
That they have noticed, I very much doubt.
In their messaging, they are so wrapped up;
So much so, that I really hate to interrupt!
With my companion, I was hoping to nice chat,
But that idea now seems to have fallen a bit flat.
Being ignored is something which I really hate;
For them to finish their message, I sit and wait.
I sit there silently, and continue eating my food;
By now, I am not feeling in too good a mood.
Finally, they switch off their mobile phone,
And, suddenly, I'm feeling no longer alone.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Library
Drowsing on the chair at six in the evening,
I sat in the library.
Attendant came to put the lights on.
Some chairs after days work were lucky to be empty,
While some were occupied.
I felt the chair feel uneasy.
Uneasiness passed on to the scholars
They moved here and there.
The chair cried in pain.
No one could hear, but I could feel
White dove the chairs messanger came
It shouted, "Let them rest".
Because what they were pursuing was not wisdom but knowledge
There dull minds were unaware
The dove went, I went too, but the chairs suffered there.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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A Lovely Poem For You
once I peep inside
on a deep shadow night
and we must
keep it like a cock drink
and we never love it
but once you hate it katee
I feel you a dancing mood
and that night
I walk out of her shadow light
and want to keep you be free
you may steal my heart katee
and I guess it to read and your sweet look
and I wish to write my poem again here
you drink this night and we share it... free...
this must not be of our lov
I steal your drink and peep your door
You may guess it to write.......
''What does it mean what does it mean''
you shiver at night
Your wallet not holds my slim photo?
You not come each place I may not go
and seems to have much better if we are share again
We light one candles and like to stay up night
and wish to kiss
and I write this for you dear
poem by Thampi KEE
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Write Me A Song
Kelly is raising a son
His dad left just after the birth
Now she's living on child support checks
I guess that's all that man was worth
She says, "I just need a man who will love me
"But they all just want one night of sin
"I know my life could be better
"I just don't know where I should begin."
She said write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
Yeah, they'll fly...
Beth, she sings straight from her heart
She's hidden her tracks very well
But these days she's falling apart
And it makes me feel just like hell
She said, "Boy, you can't imagine my life
"The death and the drugs and the pain
"And though I keep running
"I can't seem to break from these chains."
She said write me a song
And fill it all up with the words
Like "brilliant" and "heavenly"
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time "I love you" was heard
And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
We're all feeding our lonely
Like it might go away
The doors of heaven swing wide
If we just find the right words to say
She said write me a song
And fill it all up with the words
Like "brilliant" and "heavenly"
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time "I love you" was heard
And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
Yeah, they'll fly...
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Fridge
My fridge has a life of it's own
It's own
Why don't I have a life of my own?
I, plug it in, [that is the fridge]
And still it has a life of it's own
As it whines and sings
It's broken sonatas
So 'postmodern' for a fridge!
I, on the other hand only moan
Sometimes I think it is haunted
Possessed by the ghost of a fridge long dead
Do fridges have souls? , they are too cold
Full of white glossed metal
How can a fridge really feel?
This is getting surreal
But at night all alone
I hear it weeping
Could it be speaking
In 'fridge morse code? '
Filling in the gaps
Between sleeping
And waking
Wondering if life is there for the taking
What it would be like to have a life of my own
yvette m smith great poetess of the uk
april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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