The Visitor
The Visitor
When I woke up in the night I saw him standing
in the doorway giggling devilishly at me, I got
out of bed and screamed: ”Not Now! ” Grabbed
a picture from the wall, (a painting of Jesus on
the cross) and threw it after him.
The frame hit him square on his forehead, blood
oozed down his hairy body, a pool on the floor,
slimy liquid full of worms, wriggling maggots and
venomous snakes that swayed and hissed to their
master’s horrid laughter.
A stir in the air the fiend became a grey dissipating
mist and the echo of his giggles faded into silence.
In the morning I found the broken frame and glass,
softly picked the saviour up and rinsed him under
the kitchen sink.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Empty Picture Frame
An empty picture frame sits upon my desk
Where once upon a time a picture in it did rest
But now the frame stands lifeless and bare
Now it reminds me of a love that once was there.
As in the past the picture brought me happiness and joy
Gave me the reason to live and to write my story
To glance upon and dream of when no one was near
To speak the words of love when them she couldn't hear.
But when she left me I threw her picture away
But I kept that frame to remind me of that day
In remembrance of what she did in and out of my sight
As she was my candle but she blew out that light
So that picture frame I keep it in my plain view
So every time I see it I know what to say and what to do
As once upon a time her picture was in the frame
But now picture is gone but the memories still remain.
poem by Randy McClave
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Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time, I made a
silhouette,
Placed it in a picture frame,
So I would not forget,
Many years it stayed there,
Behind glass, with tender
care.
Then one day, I looked,
The picture frame was bare.
Like a fairy tale, came true,
My eyes were full of you.
poem by Heather Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picture Frames
Picture frames that enclose the art
make the art stand out.
If the frame is not just right
better to do without.
For the artist had in their mind
what the frame should be.
But the framer who made the frame
did not know what the art would be.
So acquiring the knack of pairing them
is a talent all its own.
The picture itself cannot speak out
but it has always known
what its frame should be.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Inside the pictures frame
Inside the pictures frame
~
Light breaks in the picture frame
A morning caught over a lake
Or a maidens beautiful smile
The sun cutting through the trees
Shadows falling away
A story begins in every picture
A tale waits to be told
The sound of laughter begins
In a memory of sweet joy
Light breaks in the picture frame
A moment captured for posterity
That the world is held
To forever look upon this scene
Feel its warmth, enjoy its memory
A new day beginning
A maiden or a child’s smile
Kept inside the pictures frame
Where a light forever breaks
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Jack, Come In, Back In Five
Anthony and Anna have painted a picture of a grey stoned castle
that’s floating on a cloud in an otherwise clear blue sky.
It sits upon a rock surrounded by trees, shrubs, and red roses,
and has steps leading up to a tower on its eastern side.
Pale yellow and green gaunt creatures patrol the battlements,
they appear as though their souls have been taken away.
Their moans and the noise from their dragging feet break the silence
that no other creature dare disturb night or day.
Through the shadows of the tower’s highest unframed window,
a creature looks out with it’s piercing blood red eyes.
Its attention had been caught by me as I stare into the painting
and I can feel it’s eyes pulling me from my earthly ties.
First of all my mind and then seconds later my body is taken,
transported into the creature’s dark fusty room.
Without warning its pointed teeth painlessly puncture my neck,
whilst the sun gives way to the brightest moon.
As the blood continues to be drained, my body sags with weakness
forcing me to my knees on the rough cold stone floor.
With my energy now depleted, my will to live is also being taken,
leaving me barely alive and unable to take much more.
With my blood dripping from its lips the creature snarled and hissed,
“You are mine body and soul, and you’ll come when I summon you,
so for now go back to the place from whence you came
until I become hungry, and the moon is full and new.”
Half dazed, I heard Anthony say to me, “We’re so sorry Jack,
but we were commanded by him not to tell anyone.
We came home one evening to find him sitting on our bed,
he then hypnotised us into painting this composition.
As you can see by the two marks on our necks
we have become part of his diet too.
We desperately wish we hadn’t painted him and his picture,
but it’s too late now, there’s nothing we can do.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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A Step Too Far
He stepped out of a sinking ship,
he didn't stumble, fall or trip
but stepped with solid footing in
for refuge in her warm kitchen.
The fridge was stocked with meat and booze,
he gladly helped himself to this.
His belly hurt, he burped and farted.
feasting ‘till his bottom hissed.
When he awoke at break of day
his aching head all full of pain,
he blamed the kitchen for his fate,
and smashed the cups and dinner plates.
He slammed the cupboards and what's more
he threw the cutlery on the floor!
Then when he'd done with causing havoc,
and she threw him out for shame,
he found he'd stepped a step too far
and begged to be let in again.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Frame II
The frame was best supporting act,
and held the ego high and proud.
He never moaned or groaned or spat,
just hung there, all chilled out.
Of course he would have liked acclaim,
a little lime light and a name,
although a painting with no frame
would look a little dull and tame.
The painting lapped up all attention,
with its enigmatic grin,
often feeling quite ecstatic
to be held with such esteem.
and so the frame in show biz style
put a brave face on and a smiled,
stoical in holding back
ambitions to be the star act.
The frame all low and down at heel
resigned himself as second bill
for after all it wouldn't do
if he were narcissistic too.
poem by Ruth Walters
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An island beauty
A tiny frame, as high as
Five feet and three inches,
So elegant, so supple,
Weighing thirty-five kilograms,
So youthful, so tender,
At her two and twenty,
Pleasant but not extravagant,
She stunned me at first sight.
Square face, square forehead,
Square jaw, square shoulders,
And square nose on thin frame,
She had changed
The grammar of beauty.
A Mongolian beauty.
Unobtrusive breast and
Un-ejecting buttocks
Added only colour to her
Bravado looks.
Her velvet hairs, plaited, tucked
Above and pinned atop,
Baring the lemon nape,
Is an Ajenta in drawings.
She commanded my respect.
She summoned my reverence.
But for she, called Zeenas,
My three days sea voyage
Might be a waste.
Long live, the poor Maldivian.
25.12.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Giggles, Laughter and Stabbing Stares
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
It would kill them to be nice,
It would hurt them to be kind,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
The notes are being passed around,
They don’t see, no one cares,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
Tearing at all I’ve built up,
But it won’t work anymore,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
What they don’t know is,
I just don’t care,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
Every one is doing it,
But I just sit and laugh,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
It’s so funny they think I care,
They are stupid to think I do,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
I laugh and laugh
Because they don’t see that no one cares,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
poem by Bloodlover16 Loveblood
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The House of Secret
Close the door, the window speaks
The glass mirrors, the frame shrieks
Close the window, the wall listens
The picture has eyes, the curtain has shadow
Close the wall, the roof stares
The air chills, the light fogs
Close the roof, the floor swallows
The carpet has void, the stair has trap
Close the floor, the door sneaks
In the house of secret, could you find the escape?
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Faded pictures
NLY two patient eyes to stare
Out of the canvas. All the rest-
The warm green gown, the small hands pressed
Light in the lap, the braided hair
That must have made the sweet low brow
So earnest, centuries ago,
When some one saw it change and glow-
All faded! Just the eyes burn now.
I dare say people pass and pass
Before the blistered little frame,
And dingy work without a name
Stuck in behind its square of glass.
But I, well, I left Raphael
Just to come drink these eyes of hers,
To think away the stains and blurs
And make all new again and well.
Only, for tears my head will bow,
Because there on my heart's last wall,
Scarce one tint left to tell it all,
A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.
poem by William Vaughn Moody
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You Can Take It With You (When You Go)
Well, I'm gonna have to get a new mailbox
'Cuz all she left me was a hole
And I'm gonna hafta get a new washin' machine
As soon as I get some new clothes
Well, I could close my eyes and run through this house
And never once stub my big toe
It was a man who'd never been left who said
You can't take it with you when you go
Hell, she took everything but the kitchen sink
If I had me a glass Lord, I'd pour me a drink
It's a lesson hard learned but it just goes to show
You can take it with you when you go
Well, I'm sittin' here on this hard floor
Where a big, soft couch used to be
And I'm starin' at a bug on the wall
Where there used to be a TV
Well, I'd kill that sucker in a heartbeat
If I could find me anything to throw
I was so naive to have ever believed
You can't take it with you when you go
Well, she took everything but the kitchen sink
If I had me a glass Lord, I'd pour me a drink
It's a lesson hard learned but it just goes to show
You can take it with you when you go
Well, she took everything but the kitchen sink
If I had me a glass Lord, I'd pour me a drink
It's a lesson hard learned but it just goes to show
You can take it with you when you go
I oughta call somebody but I ain't got a phone
Just goes to show you can take it with you when you go
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marley Purt Drive
Sunday morning, woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the head and looked in the glass just to see if I was in.
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
That's how they are, so I grabbed out the car;convertible fifty-nine.
Headed for the freeway; tried to find the Pasadena sign.
Ten miles and three quarters more I wasn't feeling any more alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
I used to be a minstrel free with a whole lot of bread in my bag.
I used to feel that my life was real, but the good Lord threw me a snag.
Now I'm gonna be the same as me ,no matter how I try.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Turned 'round the car and headed for home; I guess I realized my fate.
Ten miles and three quarters more I pulled up outside the gate.
Twenty more kids were stood inside and that made thirty-five.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
An orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Sunday morning woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the glass and looked in the mirror just to see if I was in .
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home For Summer
It's hard for me to comprehend
Holding on with broken hands
But who will understand
Wallow in the acid rain
What's in store for us today
It's never gonna feel the same
I'm waiting for an angel now
To carry me above the clouds
Cause it's a long way home for the summer
And it's a long way up without a ladder
It's a long way home
And it's a long way down
Swallowing the bitter taste
Trying to find a remedy
Before the crystal breaks
Looking at a picture show
Frame by frame you see us grow
To something you don't know
You're trying to find a reason now
Behind a face, you see a child
It's a long way home for the summer
And it's a long way up without a ladder
And it's a long way home
And it's a long way down
Life's a picture show
Frame by frame we grow
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What did I do?
What did I do to get out of your life,
when I am in every frame of your life?
As a fetus, you kicked and turned,
I was there in that frame, carrying you.
As an infant you were fragile and helpless,
I remember I was there as well.
As an aimless toddler, before stumbling down,
the hands that carried you, were mine.
During all your school activities,
the beating heart that prayed for your success,
During minor and major exams and interviews,
the eyes that woke up before you,
Had I been there in those frame?
I was there in every frame of your life,
I will be there in every frame of my grandchildren,
If you both let.
Until then my child, explore the new things.
This poem is dedicated to the parents who miss their
children who have gone for further education, work
commitments and other reasons as well.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Mens Room, L. A.
(buck fowler)
I saw a picture yesterday
In a mens room near l.a.
Lying on the floor beside the throne.
Had I not recognized the cross
I might have failed to know the boss,
I thought, lord, you look neglected and alone.
I picked it up with lovin care,
I wondered who had placed it there,
When l saw there was no paper on the roll.
I said, lord, what would you do
If you were me and I was you,
Take a chance, save your pants or your soul ?
Then a voice said,
kinky, its jesus here, you know that I aint no square.
Well, Ive got these pictures of me,
I mean statues, you know theyre everywhere.
Well, I may seem I come from liverpool,
And then on the other hand I may come from france,
But if you dont get off that toilet, well Im just gonna have to dance.
I saw a picture yesterday in a mens room near l.a.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Frame/white Light
Red frame white light
Telephone box
Red on grey
Six three two three double o three
Red frame white light
You have a gray book
On a metal shelf
Red frame white light
Numbered calls
Selected places
Red frame white light
Telephone calls
Black and white
Red frame white light
You have a yellow book
With averts
Red frame white light
There is a black lead to a dial and phone
Red frame white light
Six three two three double o three
song performed by by Omd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Broken between you and me
a Photo frame’s glass
has broken
between you and me
and lies in pieces
like it should be.
The photograph of when
we were happy,
has also know better days
and comes from a time
that shouldn’t have been.
Just like you that glass
cuts me,
when I try and put it together
and it will have to stay broken.
Things are forever broken
between you and me
and I still thank God,
that you went away to another.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Picture for Me
I have a picture.
It's a fairy
That I want to mount
..in a frame...
To capture
That hairy fairy.
Hey! !
Don't accuse me of being bent.
Nairy a fairy.
Even one less hairy
And scary
Will ever get their way with me.
So you see
I just want to mount
...my fairy...
poem by George BernardBloodyShaw
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Jesus In Cell
Last night Jesus entered my cell.
Oh, how sad was Christ, how tall!
The moon entered after him the cell,
and made Him taller and sadder, I recall.
His hands were like lilies on graves,
Eyes as deep as forests' lands,
The moon threw silver on his garments in waves,
silvering His big, pierced hands.
I got up from under the old, gray blanket of mine:
- God, where do you come from? From what age, tell me, please?
Jesus gently put a finger to His mouth as a sign,
motioned for me to be quiet and at ease...
He sat next to me on the mat full of dust...
- Put your hand on my wounds, on my veins,
On his ankles were shadows of wounds and rust,
It was as if he had once worn chains...
Sighing, He stretched His tired bones
on my mat where cockroaches go.
The moon shined through the cell's stones,
but the thick lattices reflected stripes on His snow.
The cell looked like a mountain,
it looked like a skull,
and there were biting lice, pain, and many fears,
On my hand, I felt my head fall,
I fell asleep for a thousand years...
When I woke up from my abyssal dream,
the straw smelled like flowers, like a fresh rose.
I was in the cell and the moon was agleam,
only Jesus was nowhere... nowhere close.
I stretched out my arms, but no one, only silence.
I asked the wall: no answer at all!
Only the cold rays, sharpened by violence,
with their spear piercing me into the cell wall.
- Where are you, God? I screamed at the bars.
Smoke was coming from the moon on the narrow trails,
I touched myself... and on my hands... scars...
I found the marks of His nails.
poem by Radu Gyr, translated by Marius Alexandru
Submitted by anonym
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