There Shall Be No Blank Space Of This Jalousy
she broke a piece
of the window, a plank of glass
and the cat gets in at night
and sleeps on my favorite sofa
i never like this
i don't like a blank space where a cat slips in
and takes a portion of my sofa
this is strictly prohibited in my world
today the plank of glass is delivered
and there is no emptiness left along the lines of this
space
where the wind is free to
to get in and then move out like nothing happened
between the cat and the sofa.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How I Wish You Were Here
how i wish you were here
i sit by my window and you
are just beside me and i become your
face tissue and you are some tears
or we could be something else
or could be that i am the microphone
of the videoke and you are the
song or could be otherwise
or i could be the sofa
and you are the guest sipping beer
or a coca-cola or could be that we
are all guests and we are all the singers
and the rest are the songs and the sofa
and the glasses and the wine
and the ham and bread
whatever, i only wish that you are here beside me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you find your friend on the sofa at home with your wife, you had better sell the sofa.
The Red Sofa
The thick red sofa,
Anf of the laughter and joy that it brings in the name of love;
But this had been our place always,
And to warm ourselves from the cold of winter!
The thick red sofa,
This was our place of love and everything!
Both in the hot and the cold weathers to swing with the muse of love,
For this red sofa is all that we have in the room.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sitting On My Sofa
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
You got all your friends,
I got a tv set.
You got your cars,
And this boys never had anything.
Now Im stuck here, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
You got all your friends,
I got a tv set.
You got your cars,
And this boys never had anything.
Now Im stuck here, sitting on my sofa,
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Oh...
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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September Rain
September Rain (sonnet)
Most days, on my way to the bar or grocery shop,
I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of
an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in
the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next, tells me
the same story about his parents, and where he
grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only
the mantle, he wraps around himself when there
is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr
whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old?
I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace,
a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky,
in the vale where I live and my parents too lived,
we wait for September rain.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sittin On My Sofa
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
You got all your friends,
I got a TV set.
You got your cars,
And this boy's never had anything.
Now I'm stuck here, sitting on my sofa,
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
You got all your friends,
I got a TV set.
You got your cars,
And this boy's never had anything.
Now I'm stuck here, sitting on my sofa,
All alone, sitting on my sofa,
Sipping at my soda,
Sitting on my sofa.
Oh, oh, oh, sitting on my sofa,
Oh...
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Night with Miss Pinkie
Miss Pinkie (she dropped
the title Mrs from
her name ages ago)
lay on the sofa
and said
take me if you want
spank me if you will
and he stood
looking at her
a glass of scotch
in his hand
the music of Mahler's
symphony number 4
coming through the door
from an outer room
she lay butt naked
her amble flesh
spread out
her hands resting
on her breasts
who's the orchestra
on the Mahler piece?
he asked
can't remember
she said shifting slightly
her blue eyes searching him
aren't you going to oblige?
she said
he drank back
the scotch
and put the glass down
on the small coffee table
can I sit first?
sure
she said and sat up
and moved over
to allow him room
beside her
he gazed at her
at her dyed blonde hair
at her eyes deep
like oceans of blueness
knowing she had
19 years upward on him
and all she wanted
was a few hours
of talk and laughter
and a leisurely screw
one of the old guys
died at the home today
he said
out of the blue
oh which one?
she asked
the one who sat
in his room each day
and looked out
the window
and said next to nothing
oh him
she said
think he was
broken hearted
she added
he took in
the beauty spot
on her cheek
like Marilyn used
to have years ago
so how about it?
she asked
are you ready for it?
the Mahler piece softened
some moving movement
well?
she said placing
a hand on his thigh
maybe you could put
on Brahms for a change
he said
sensing her hands
move upwards
maybe
she said softly
if you're a good boy
the lights were low
the lights from the street
added a different shade
of glow
ok
he said
and her hands moved
and did their work
and so did his
bit by bit
time over time
the music playing on
in the background
that and flesh slapping
and the sofa squeaking
was the symphony
of a sexual sound.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Laying Bare And Lovely Still On A State Of Bliss
amidst the softness of the big
sofa
you lay your naked body
your breasts stare at the ceiling
your hair freely falling
on the arm
of that big sofa
you close your eyes on this
baring
you point your toe
to the carpeted floor
your arms are light
as your hands rest
on the furry cover
the silence is sweet and this
time the world is calm
no word creeps on your lips
come to think of it
what is the description
of this bliss?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Some Things You Can't Take Back
Well she was lookin out the window
And I was starin at the door
The dog was sleepin on the sofa
This place has never been this quiet before
You cant pretend it never happened
You cant pretend its still the same
You cant say you were only jokin
You cant keep thinkin things can go on this way
CHORUS
Some things you cant take back
Though you wish you could
Some things you cant take back
Though the glass has been broke
And the milk has been spilled
And your loves on the line
Some things you cant take back
When someone says theres no tomorrow
When the writings on the wall
After all have cried and spoken
And your poor heart has taken such a fall
REPEAT CHORUS
If I could reset the clock and go back in time
Id erase the thoughts that went through my mind
You know I never would leave
And Id still have you with me
You cant pretend it never happened
You cant pretend its still the same
You cant say you were only jokin
You cant keep thinkin things can go on this way
REPEAT CHORUS
Some things you cant take back
Cause in the cold light of day the pieces all blew away
And now Im livin a lie
Some things you cant take back
song performed by by Uncle Kracker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flight of Fancy
Our sofa was a spaceship.
We soared between the stars
Visiting distant planets
Like Jupiter and Mars.
My brother and I were astronauts
Dad was Chief Engineer
He'd power up the engines
Then through the heavens we'd steer.
We followed a passing comet,
Met some little green men,
Went to the edge of the universe
And all the way back again.
We travelled across the galaxy
Passed the Milky Way.
Even took tea with the Man in the Moon
And all in just one day!
Our sofa was a spaceship
That special afternoon
Oh! What a great adventure!
And over all too soon!
poem by Dawn Ferrett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ginger cat (Villanelle)
I am a spoiled, lazy ginger cat
I am lying on the sofa all day long
And yes, i am a cat that is very fat
I am posh and proud to be your pet
I n your eyes i never do wrong
I am a spoiled, lazy ginger cat
I will not chase that dirty rat
I am OK, on the sofa is were i belong
And yes, i am a cat that is very fat
You can bash the rat with a bat
Cook him in a pot, feed him to Mr Chong
I am a spoiled, lazy ginger cat
Other cats see me and they frat
I am a top cat, i lead with a midnight song
And yes i am a cat that is very fat
I am that fat cat who sat on the mat
all morning, until you heard the gong
I am a spoiled, lazy ginger cat
And yes, i am a cat that is very fat
poem by Milica Franchi De Luri
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It's Ours
there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing
that
gentle pure
space
it's worth
centuries of
existence
say
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all
ever.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
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October Night of Divas, East Tenth Street, New York City
for Brandon
A night of divas
stretched out
in the dark on
slow sofa fade
look out window
city lights
some fly one
frame to another
dark space square
between what is seen
then seen again
scratching belly, head, think -
Whatever became of Majestic,
his suicidal crocuses?
When did I marry Lonely?
can't recall
but fell kid-hard
backyard empty clothesline
silk slip one pin down
dip shyly in brick shadows
pornographic breezes.
I sing to knees now...
Beyond Manhattan Bridge
sudden heat lightening
a good night with cool rain
old vinyl Nyro**
needle scratches
done with song
poem by Warren Falcon
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Room 122
Tossing her leather bag onto the bed she waits stretched as tight as a drum. Her heart feels like Thor's war hammer is beating against it. The tension in the back of her neck is making her crouch forward.
Sit up straight, she says to herself.
Don't say too much when he walks in. And DON'T look him in the eye.
The eyes are a dead giveaway. A window to the soul.
When he comes in look over his shoulder like there's something behind his back you have an interest in.
So many memories...
God, you're a freak. What are you doing here? It's plain.
Love? No, you've lost your mind. That has to be it.
But, he say's he can't wait to see you, so everything is going be ok. God would have intervened if it wasn't ok.
A faint knock.
Don't answer it. Wait! Don't go. Go. No, wait.
Answer the door you idiot! He came all this way to see you.
He towers over her dominantly. Her knees go weak.
Don't chicken out now.
You're so beautiful, he says. Your hair is a little shorter, but you look the same.
She takes his hand. She's shaking inside. Does he feel it? She doesn't want him to think she's a little girl.
Shut up! You ARE a little girl!
Would you like a glass wine? she asks. Thinking she's in need of liquid courage.
Yes. Do you have a bottle opener?
Yes, I always come prepared.
Oh great, you found opportunity to mention what a real keen taskmaster you are.
Cut to the chase. You were soaked with the mere thought of him. Just let him take you down.
He sits down on the love sofa. In her mind she finds this hilarious. He's on the love sofa. She wonders why they are called that.
I mean seriously, how many people make love on a sofa? Hmm.
How long can you stay? She asks.
About 2 hours.
Oh no, she thinks. We don' have much time. She wonders how they can absorb each other in a mere two hours.
Let's go lie down, he says. I want to look at you.
You promised that you wouldn't force me into anything, she says.
I wont, he says.
Against her own advice she starts to look into his eyes. Oh God, they're green. Look away. You always were a sucker for green eyes. They'll bewitch you...Fill you with regret.
I remember you from the last time I saw you, he says.
Really? When was that? she asks.
I'm not sure. It was in the Ratz Keller, I think. I may have been drinking. I may have been dreaming.
Oh. she says, her voice trailing off. I don't remember, I'm sorry.
From out of nowhere…I want you to stroke me. Would you like to do that? The bulge in his jeans huge.
So many memories...
Frightened, she looks at her watch. Do you know that it's midnight? Their time together had evaporated.
Really? he says. I have to go.
I wish you didn't have to, she says.
Call me ok? She asks vulnerably.
Sure. What's your name and number?
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
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The wind trapped like a tired man,
The wind tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, 'Come in,'
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within
A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.
No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous humming-birds at once
From a superior bush.
His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.
He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped--'t was flurriedly--
And I became alone.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Awaiting our dues to be paid.
The sky is falling or so I’m told, still reflections tell no tales
You may try to catch the looking glass out, Why try to always fail?
Cast away the beast of burden, he's cursed us now too long
Won’t someone let me know what is it we're running from?
As we lie hogtied, burnt, beaten, left to the wilderness
Pulsating, seeking release from this plain.
We’ll never get anywhere fast, it’s useless
Like a angel placed upon the hillside to sit, to watch the race
As we take it at our own pace, displaced from our forms
Here within a house of glass, with Paranoia staring through us,
Blank expressions rule the day, blank expression are the norm.
Background conversations, halt for the procession of the airwaves
In harmony a river of souls descends into darkness, chaos ensues upon the stairwell
Here we lay lost within our space, waiting for the final piece in the jigsaw to be laid
Awaiting our dues to be paid.
poem by David Lacey
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The unwritten is also there
a blank paper
limitless as space
to fill the knowledge
here and beyond
and words of God
here, the learned plot
the stars, moon and universe
day and night
to the untutored
the blank paper might
as well be carrying space
limitless, enthralling
yet not fathomable
reachable
the blank page
catches the
essence of the mind
the written is there
the unwritten also there
if you could read
between the lines
if you could sense
the universal mind
the waves at sea
afford only a little view
of the power of the wind
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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If It Is Really Meant For Me....
you say that i should
keep knocking
joy shall soon open
its window
ah, when it is meant really
for me
i need not knock even
even when i am far away
in that dead desert
the house will come running
looking for me
it will open all its five doors
and ten windows
it will let me sit in its
sofa
it will prepare my bed
where i can finally
rest for
the night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The End and the Beginning
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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