Polly strips His bed
Polly strips back the sheets
where Master George has lain.
She folds the white sheets and
lays them on a chair. She lies
her head on the pillow where
his head has been. She sniffs
and smells him. Closing her eyes
she imagines she's there beside
him and he has her in his arms,
his lips against her flushed cheek.
She imagines they are in bed
together when dawn's light breaks
through the shutters and Susie
the other maid enters and wide
eyed she mouths a huge round O.
She opens her eyes; the pillow
is vacant beside her head, just
a small indentation where he had
laid his head the night before.
She fingers into the pocket of her
white apron a few black hairs she's
discovered on the white pillowcase.
She strips off the pillowcases and
puts them with the sheets. The bed
is now stripped of all coverings
and is left to air. She imagines as
she stands that he is still there,
laid out unclothed, skin all bare.
But in reality she knows he has
gone of to war as he has before.
She hopes he will return alive
and in one piece; no missing
limps or blind or gassed as some
have been she's read; but most of all
she dreads him laid out cold and damp
in some foreign field lying still and dead.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Lisa and The Aftermath After Sunday
Lisa dresses for school,
buttons up the blouse
with fumbling fingers.
She stares down at her
bed where she and Mona
had lain the day before.
The same sheets, pillows
having no doubt her hair,
her smell. She puts on her
school tie, loops it through,
her fingers sensing the
smoothness of the cloth.
She remembers how they
had made love on that bed,
how they had lain naked and
hot and kissing. Best Sunday
ever, she muses, looking away,
stepping into her school skirt,
pulling it over her waist.
Her mother had called out
to her some minutes before.
Breakfast ready, not in the
mood for food. She looks out
the window at the farmyard
across the way, cows heading
out to the fields, her father
following, bellowing, a stick
in his hand, his arms raised
to move them on. She sits on
the bed and takes a pillow
and holds it to her nose
and sniffs. Mona's scent,
borrowed from her mother,
she had said. She feels along
the sheet with her hand.
They had laid there, their
bodies, their lips kissing,
their hands holding. No one
had known they were
making love. Her parents
and family had thought them
drying after getting drench
in the Sunday downpour.
She closes her eyes, imagines
Mona is still there, thinks
she feels her hands around
her waist. Her mother's voice
calls from downstairs. She sighs,
stands up and slips on her
socks and shoes. Leans down
and puts a kiss on her top
pillow where Mona had
laid her head, now she has only
images and memories instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Clean white sheets
Clean white sheets upon my bed
cradle my body but not my head.
My head's never cradled. It's too full.
It's too noisy. There is no lull.
I wash them routinely every week.
If I hung them outside the neighbors would speak.
Their words would complement the sight
of clean white sheets I use at night.
But they don't know how I'm awake
and how those sheets never give me a break.
I make the bed up and I think
'If only I could catch a wink.'
I'd praise those sheets on every day
and finally I'd be able to say.
'Clean white sheets upon my bed
you've found a way to cradle my head.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After Death
IF we must part, this parting is the best:
How would you bear to lay
Your head on some warm pillow far away--
Your head, so used to lying on my breast?
But now your pillow is cold;
Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold;
Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies.
I have put the death-money upon your eyes,
So that you should not wake up in the night.
I have bound your face with white;
I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,--
Those arms wherein I have slept so many years,
Those feet that hastened when they came to me,
And all your body that belonged to me.
I have smoothed your dear dull hair,
And there is nothing left to say for you
And nothing left to fear or pray for you;
And I have got the rest of life to bear:
Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there.
If I had died
And you had stood beside
This still white bed
Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,--
I know the thing it is,
And I thank God that He has spared you this.
If one must bear it, thank God it was I
Who had to live and bear to see you die,
Who have to live, and bear to see you dead.
You will have nothing of it all to bear:
You will not even know that in your bed
You lie alone. You will not miss my head
Beside you on the pillow: you will rest
So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast.
But I--but I--Your pillow and your place--
And only the darkness laid against my face,
And only my anguish pressed against my side--
Thank God, thank God, that it was you who died!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Pillow
I try to get comfortable in my bed
But there's always something wrong
with the pillow ‘neath my head.
It's either too warm or sometimes too cold.
I turn it, pummel it
Then toss it aside instead.
But then I miss it and can't decide
Shall I grab it again
Or count to ten?
How can I sleep with no support?
My neck gets stiff. My eyes won't close
And all because of the pillow I chose.
Maybe I need a silk pillowcase,
one that's fringed with fancy lace.
Or maybe it's not the pillow to blame.
Maybe it's my head that's not the same.
It's filled with words and melodies
That makes my pillow hard to please.
I'll try to get comfortable again tonight.
It's my head on that pillow
or a pillow fight.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dunne Studying.
Dunne watches her mistress sleep.
There is the flickering of the eyelids
As if in dream. She gets out of bed
And with soft tread walks to her
Mistress’s bed side and looks down.
She holds her breath. She takes in
Each aspect of the face and neck
And how the hair is spread upon
The pillow. She wants to lean down
And kiss the lips, put flesh to flesh.
She hovers like some hawk waiting
To fly down and take her fine prey.
She breathes out slowly. She watches
The rise and fall of her mistress’s breast.
She moves out a hand to lay it there
But does not touch. She imagines so.
Imagines also climbing into the bed
And snuggling up close and kissing
The nape of neck. Her hand lingers
Over the breasts. Her eyes greedily
Study the soft cheek. She breathes
In deep. Her heart pounds within her
Breast. So near so near. She imagines
Lying within those arms and feeling
The hands caress her back. Her mistress
Stirs and she moves away. Walks back
To her own bed to await the light of day.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crispy Sheets
I always like to meet
Under fresh crispy sheets
To feel its coolness against my skin
I get so excited I don't know where to begin
Maybe start by putting my arms around a pillow
Then stretch out and switch on the radio
Roll over and look out of the window
Watch a cloud cross the sun and cast a shadow
Get up, make coffee and go back to bed
Pick up a book that I've just read
Turn a page and then close my eyes
And fall asleep, there's a surprise
Let the quietness drift away my dream
Lying covered in linen sheets of light cream
Only to be woken up by a cat purring in my ear
There's no place I'd rather be than here
Oh wonderful Crispy Sheets
poem by JeanJacques Evendon
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Unexpected Things...
It's unexpected..
But it's something that causes you to catch your breath..
Make you sway
Perhaps it makes your pupils dilate..
The look of his fingers as they dance on a keyboard..
Those hands are unexpectedly
Somehow
Attractive
She imagines them on her..
And, a blush creeps to her cheeks
Making her flush
Making her warm
An unexpected glance at her flesh..
Her shirt lifts as she reaches up to adjust something too high...
It's that area at the small of her back
Near her side
And,
His eyes linger..
Tracing her form
While she is unarmed in her lack of awareness
He can't help himself..
Even that small glimpse
Leaves his throat dry
Makes his hand twitch
To touch..
Even a fleeting touch
Is that asking for too much?
Lips
What can one say..
When they are full
And
Beautiful
And inviting
And so soft..
She bites her lower lip all the time
She imagines her lips
Dancing on his..
He thinks he'd like to be the one to
Bite
See what her lips taste like
Her collar bone..
He imagines his lips there
His tongue tracing the perfect arch
To the dip at her throat..
Her eyes
They grow bigger at the site of him
Surprised
It's not a controlled reaction
Heartbeats accelerate
His neck..
The back where tapered
Perfectly clipped hairs
Meet the edge of his shirt..
But leave enough space
To spy his skin..
She imagines what it would feel like...
If her lips ever met his skin there
Her legs
Sculpted perfection in heels..
He imagines...
His eyes
So warm
She likes the way they look at her
And, when he laughs
His smile reaches them..
Her skin
Golden sun kissed and warm
Smooth...
Soft..
He wonders
If she's smooth and soft and golden
Everywhere..golden...delicious...
His voice
She can close her eyes and listen to his voice all day..
It calls to her
Somewhere deep inside
There is a reaction..
Her smile
He likes to see her smile
Especially when he's the one
Who has caused it..
She likes his arms
She's always had a thing for shoulders..
He likes her hair
Wonders how soft it is
How it smells
They spend their days
Wondering...
When things get dull..
Even when they aren't...
Daydreaming..
Each relieved
The other can't read thoughts..
Both acutely aware
Of the other...
She smells like...
His sent is that of...
It was unexpected
The realization of the other
It was surprising..
A shock to the system
A sudden awareness
Something that caused their breath to catch
Make them sway
Make their pupils dilate
It's a heady reaction
Unexpected in so many ways.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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After Willie Had Gone
Dotty lies in Willie's bed,
he's gone to fetch Sammy
his poet friend and will return
in a few days. She sniffs
her brother's pillow, smells
his hair oil and aftershave.
She snuggles into the bed
for warmth, pulling his duvet
tight around her, imagining
it's him holding her, his arms
about her. She has a headache,
a coming near the edge, migraine.
Feels sick, light leaking through
the curtains makes it worse.
She puts her head under the
duvet, shuts out the bright light.
She smells him better here, his
love of scent, his personal choice.
She hears birdsong from the garden,
a blue tit, great tit, unsure which.
Willie'd know. She squeezes her
eyes tight keep out whatever light
might intrude. Willie's left her some
of his poems to type up and file away.
Later in the day, she muses, once
the sickness and migraine's gone.
He had a good day yesterday with
the poems, she recalls, him reciting
over and over as they walked, her
scribbling down, pencil and pad,
her finger and thumb holding the
pencil tight until they felt numb.
After they returned home and sat
by the fire and he spoke them out
one by one. She loved the one about
winter dawn. She turns over, faces
the wall, her head buried into Willie's
warm indentation. In the darkness
she recites the poems one by one,
the words pouring from her lips,
following each other like children
out to play. She shuts out the dawn
chorus of birds that celebrate the day.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As the butterfly imagines
As the butterfly imagines
the world is moving fast
historical events are happening
no one knows when they will last
New melodies are the present
as the butterfly imagines
slowly she starts dancing
before realizing reality.
Her body is ice walking through paradise
she's so delighted, no one will dare to disturb her happiness
as the butterfly imagines
that she is like a holy angel.
Time ran out!
The friend's funeral is happening
she's not here anymore
as the butterfly imagines.
poem by Maria Jose Cid Velazquez
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As Girls Sleep
She sleeps as only girls sleep
dreaming of babies and diamonds
or how that rich guy got away.
She slumbers with lips pressed tight.
Her eyes flicker like flames of
a new touched fire. Her hands lay
like guardians over her womb,
beneath her dress. She dreams
of his lips. Pressed close, skin on skin.
Once upon a dream she made love
to her sister's husband. Once upon
a nightmare her husband kissed her
upon her vagina. In deep sleep she
smells of ashes from Auschwitz, her
mother's family perished amongst flames.
She rubs her nose in sleeps' hold,
scratches her head with unpainted
fingernails. Once upon a sleep she
counted aborted babes, the white
vacant coffins. She turns in her sleep,
her body moves in her favourite armchair,
too tired for bed. She has had nailed
her one Picasso print above her head.
Her husband is in Vienna, a floozy on
his arm, another between sheets,
never from love, always the lust.
She will have him back upon his return;
always his pupil, but never to learn.
poem by Terry Collett
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Scrawled In Sap
O the sky grey orange
An the walls stained blue
An I laid right down on the golden satin with you
Into sween dark circles of beautiful eyes
I go round
O lord
I go round
Will you tell me once again
Cream white skin
You are my friend
I seen you walkin and your white hips sway
O girl I will have you no more
To the moan in your voice
Not a charm do you lack
Your skin to touch as a black ravens back
But I cannot go far with these words as they rhyme
As to tell, of the pleasure, your hand in mine
An I pray as I say this song in this way
That your eyes they would close an your head begin to sway
An youll feel how he heals with his blood on our skin
I am yours lady scrawled an thin
Will you tell me once again
Cream white skin
You are my friend
I seen you walkin in your husbands way
Girl I will have you more
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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7th Time
The 7th time, love sickness and desillusion
This head that wont listen to me , now
Theres crumb of a dark night
Burning in your mouth
Till I wake you...
Its three steps too far, this slammed door,
Your damned bed, this white head, beside you,
And there is blood on the stairs,
So keep it nice, Im broken,
Between skin and sheets, skin and sheets,
I wont disturb you anymore,
Between two lights, I woke you up,
The seventh time, I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
The 7th time, love sickness and desillusion
This head that wont listen to me , now
Theres crumb of a hot night
Burning in your mouth
Till I wake you...
Between skin and sheets, skin and sheets,
I wont disturb you anymore,
Between two lights, I woke you up,
The 7th time, I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
The 7th time , the 7th time
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
More
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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7th Time
The 7th time, love sickness and desillusion
This head that wont listen to me , now
Theres crumb of a dark night
Burning in your mouth
Till I wake you...
Its three steps too far, this slammed door,
Your damned bed, this white head, beside you,
And there is blood on the stairs,
So keep it nice, Im broken,
Between skin and sheets, skin and sheets,
I wont disturb you anymore,
Between two lights, I woke you up,
The seventh time, I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
The 7th time, love sickness and desillusion
This head that wont listen to me , now
Theres crumb of a hot night
Burning in your mouth
Till I wake you...
Between skin and sheets, skin and sheets,
I wont disturb you anymore,
Between two lights, I woke you up,
The 7th time, I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
The 7th time , the 7th time
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
I wont disturb you anymore
More
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Sheets To The Wind
Verse 1
Isn't it about time
yes, I've played this part before
I can recall each line
I'll cry out-Don't go
and you turn and walk away
I scream out-what about our yesterdays
knowing inside
this heart is going to break
Chorus
And later on
here I'll be
lonely and blue-three sheets to the wind
Tryin' to wash you out of my head and heart
with another drink
another sad song playin' on the radio
Like Remember When and Three Sheets To The Wind
three sheets to the wind
Verse 2
So you don't have to pretend
honey, it's that same old story-heard it all before
Got all the information I need
facts are so easy to see
Even a blind man would know
it ain't you and I anymore
Chorus
And later on
here I'll be
lonely and blue-three sheets to the wind
Tryin' to wash you out of my head and heart
with another drink
another sad song playin' on the radio
Like Remember When and Three Sheets To The Wind
three sheets to the wind
Verse 3
Well it's okay
had it all figured out
just a matter of time
I'll smile-laugh out loud
go on down to Mexico
lay on the shores
Under that golden sun
and maybe I'll just go on
Chorus
And later on
here I'll be
lonely and blue-three sheets to the wind
Tryin' to wash you out of my head and heart
with another drink
another sad song playin' on the radio
Like Remember When and Three Sheets To The Wind
three sheets to the wind...
poem by Daniel Wittfoth
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Missing You My Love
Staring at the four walls in my room,
Feeling the emptiness and voidness,
Impulses travel throughout my veins,
The agony of a lonely man,
This room so quiet and empty
Missing you
Holding a red rose in my hand,
Smelling it without feeling the scent,
Holding your picture in my hand,
Loving you without doubt,
My hands are delicate and cold,
Missing you my love
Sleeping in my sheets alone,
Closing my eyes seeing you in,
Openning them seeing you out,
My pillow is hard, my sheets metalic,
Im missing you my love
Do you feel like i feel,
Or enslaved by love is only me,
Come along my lover,
Missing you my love
poem by Gaylord Munemo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Total Blackout!
the journey is ending
the head is the first to
signal to me that all
would soon be over
this hair has turned from
black to grey to white
as fast as the memory
is greying into nothingness
they turn white totally white
as sheets of my memory are
but oh god, what a contrast
it would soon be - a total backout!
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Kiss
She turns her head gently
From left to right
And from right to left,
Avoiding my blazing lips.
Her shiny ebon hair
Gracefully frames her charming face.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The blue waves of the sea,
The flight of birds very high,
The azure serenity of the sky.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The green tranquility of the forest
Happiness and sadness,
Her beautiful soul, suffering and love,
The pristine spirit of an ivory dove.
I look into her eyes
And I see in them
The pure white blossoms of Lily
And the sun rising over the mountain,
The bliss and joy of life, the sorrow and the pain.
She turns her head gently
From right to left
And from left to right
Until my lips meet with hers
And I kiss her enchanted, throbbing and trembling.
Time stands still, only the hour grows thin,
Her delicate fingers plough my bare skin.
poem by Paul Hartal
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White America-Me...
I often feel like a black spot on new white sheets.
This is white America-me.
They say my music is not music but more a call to violence.
White America-me.
They tell me my people are free if this true why do the prisons look like an old southern plantation. White America-me.
Most of the schools where my people go are shut down. They say it's because of low test scores. I believe it's because they really want to keep us dumb. White America-me.
I often feel like a black spot on new white sheets.
White America-me.
We fit into each other
We fit into each other
and it is pure passion,
perfect like light on glass
with bodies, hands
and feelings touching deeper.
There’s JC Le Roux champagne in a glass
and the red sparkles like fire
burning deep in your eyes
while you shake your head
spreading your hair over your shoulders.
Later you lipstick
is on the edge of a glass,
while I pour some more champagne for you
and the smoke of your cigarette
spirals up into the air
and I see your perfect body
before you draw me nearer to you
and I feel your soft skin
with nipples pointing into my chest
with your breath soft against my cheek.
In your sleep your turn against me,
lying with an arm stretched over my body
and it’s as if your lips are muttering words
while your face looks pure and chaste
like that of a small girl.
The next day I find
a brown hair-clip in my bed,
on the pillow there’s a mark of red lipstick
and my sheets smell of you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Come Back To Me
Do not be slighted,
Lust, return to me
when i am strong again
when my skin feels
the tickle and the rub
Do not be shy
Come to my bed again
For my sheets are warm
My pillow dreamy.
Come back to me
AT night when i am alone again
Caressing my body
In sin
Sensual pleasures
Come and feel the dryness of my
Thighs
The blessings of my arms
The tenderness of my heart
For now I welcome all these
I am alive
I am hungry and thirsty
For Love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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