NUDE
A pile of shed
garments on
the hardwood floor
rising in layers
of ever thinner
firmament,
from denim
to lightest cotton
to breath-
less silk &
a trickle
of sunlight
spilling through a crack
in the curtains.
While
the prim unwrinkled
Poems on the topic: bed
Poems on the topic “bed” on Poets.by.
Sick
You lay there in a bed
At a hospital
While your loved ones visit you with your illness
And at last you pull yourself to say some words
" I Will Always Love-"
Now asleep
Forever
Or Flight
face-down i laid on that dusty carpet
acutely aware of the bed above me
mattress heavy enough to crush my lungs if it fell
and your head knocking against the battered walls
thump
thump
thump
because instinct screams at you to run and hide
to listen to every fucking heartbeat of the enemy
when violence lurks nearby
Saudade
sitting alone in my bed, the fan blowing against my skin,
i remember
the rush of your breath
the pitter-patter of your heart
the soft silk of our shared blanket
but now its thread traces the ground, muddy and frayed,
as i brush through the wind
into the freezing river.
Snake
When I awoke one morning,
A snakecoiled on my head.
I asked, "What are you doing up there?"
It looked at me and said . . .
"What are you doing down there?"
I curtly replied, "I asked you first!"
The snake slithered down, unhappy with my reply, and covered my eyes.
So, I fell headfirst out of bed and it was the worst.
When I came to, the snake was gone.
My head felt angry, bathed in agony, from falling out of bed.
And so, when I awoke one morning,
a snake was coiled on my head.
Monsters
A kid looked around his room
And below his bed
To find the monster like they said
He searched all over
Fortunately couldn't find them
He grew up
Now he didn't check his room or bed
He know where it is
He know the humans are the monsters
The Deathbed
I slept on it, dreamt, planned my life
Here is his name I scratched, in madness of love.
This stain you see is my blood
Shed, in hope that he would love me more.
I take leave, my bed, let others sleep on thee,
Give them the love and life you gave me
But tell them not, the secrets we shared.
Tell them, if you wish, that I once laid on you
But tell them not I lost myself on your posts.
I take leave, my bed, may thee be host
To lives worthy more than me - here, a toast to thee!
My Bed Is My Coffin
The weight of my sadness pulls on my heart
the iron chains of my thoughts restrain me to my hatred
every movement feels like carrying the earth on my fingertips
it drains me of all hope and light
leaving only the shell of what once was a happy little girl
skipping through feels of cotton
now passing through different levels of hell
only to find that what she had been searching for was hers all along
the draught of her mind makes the painting dry up
and makes the summer leaves shrivel and die
only to be crunched by the crushing weight of a human
like a wave of anger
and what will be a board to float on
if only the universe would grant it
Something
I approach with such
a careful tremor, always
I feel the finally foolish
once in a rented room on
27th street, the woman I loved
then, literally, after we
had made love on the large
bed sitting across from
a basin with two faucets, she
had to pee but was nervous,
embarrassed I suppose I
would watch her who had but
a moment ago been completely
open to me, naked, on
the same bed. Squatting, her
head reflected in the mirror,
Goodbye to All That
Each does a little
more than what
he does best, but trusts
his genius, hers
shines through nonetheless
& if it hurts the eyes
to wade across the tonsured
head, a metaphor
for poetry
barren of truthfulness
then close the book
turn off the light, &
seek the member of the
species with whom
you've been blessed
to spend these moments
Take: 3/15/61
maybe i am crazy, since probable nobody else
is up, at 3 a m,eating chicken gizzards
and reading raymond chandler
after having gone thru all the mail that's hung around
for the past ten years, cutting off stamps
for anna's kid's collection. i found out, anyway,
that joan o'malley for ten years never used stamps
w/ pictures, but only those purple threes
(it was threes then). which goes to show you.
i have carefully avoided mention of any harpies
that might still be on the firescape. i meticulously throw out old
dried out rubber bands. if i can manage it
i'll pull out the bed & put on a fitted sheet
not that you'll notice, one way or the other
Poem
during the past few months become monastic
content. this
unseemly phase
is im sure a function
of space
of having only the weather
to contend with
& i embrace it & hang the bells
i make of its wind
over your side of the bed
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