New Poem
What the House Might Say
The Hardwood Floor
My boards ache.
I’ve lost my luster.
I used to be inspired by
the small earth under me,
but you can walk over me
only so many times before
I turn my planks against you.
The Area Rug
Since I moved to the spare bedroom
I long for your stiff pine
against my back.
Your every flaw
creates memories
I hold deep within my fibers.
I miss protecting you.
The Stove
My eyes are crusty, always covered
with the butt of a pan. Once
I was the hot shot around here.
Now the microwave and I
share a difficult companionship.
No one fries anymore.
Why am I here?
The Microwave
Some days,
I’m just not fast enough.
10 seconds, 20 seconds, half-hour—
trying to beat my own best time.
Someone’s always watching me,
but I’m more than a flash in the pan.
Touch my buttons again and
I’ll break your fingers.
The Fan
Can you hear me?
I whisper your name back and forth
across a balmy room.
Dust me.
I need to be cleaned.
I shake my head in disapproval,
reveal my slow-turning
pain.
The Telephone
Stop calling me.
The Bathtub
When I feel empty,
I pretend I am a pool,
or an ocean
so vast there is no floor
and no end in sight.
When all else fails
I am the last resort,
the only place left to go.
The Crib
I hear everything:
soft sighs
tucked between
the folds of the sheets.
The mattress imprint
leaves the impression
of a life being lived.
Copyright 2006 January G. O'Neil
The Hardwood Floor
My boards ache.
I’ve lost my luster.
I used to be inspired by
the small earth under me,
but you can walk over me
only so many times before
I turn my planks against you.
The Area Rug
Since I moved to the spare bedroom
I long for your stiff pine
against my back.
Your every flaw
creates memories
I hold deep within my fibers.
I miss protecting you.
The Stove
My eyes are crusty, always covered
with the butt of a pan. Once
I was the hot shot around here.
Now the microwave and I
share a difficult companionship.
No one fries anymore.
Why am I here?
The Microwave
Some days,
I’m just not fast enough.
10 seconds, 20 seconds, half-hour—
trying to beat my own best time.
Someone’s always watching me,
but I’m more than a flash in the pan.
Touch my buttons again and
I’ll break your fingers.
The Fan
Can you hear me?
I whisper your name back and forth
across a balmy room.
Dust me.
I need to be cleaned.
I shake my head in disapproval,
reveal my slow-turning
pain.
The Telephone
Stop calling me.
The Bathtub
When I feel empty,
I pretend I am a pool,
or an ocean
so vast there is no floor
and no end in sight.
When all else fails
I am the last resort,
the only place left to go.
The Crib
I hear everything:
soft sighs
tucked between
the folds of the sheets.
The mattress imprint
leaves the impression
of a life being lived.
Copyright 2006 January G. O'Neil
Comments
Still a work in progress (can't get the first stanza to work), so suggestions for improvement are helpful.
The Telephone
Stop calling me.
Keep with it, what you've got so far is really good.
I’ll break your fingers.* Oh how I love this!
What a fantastic series of poems. Poignant AND laugh out loud funny. Can't wait to see how it gets in an even shinier version, how dazzling will that be? ;-)
Well done!
i look forward to absorbing more.
thank you for stopping by.
it is very nice to meet you!
Oh, and I started my own writer blog. You've inspired me. :) http://writerbug.blogspot.com/ I hope mine is half as successful as yours (in terms of how often you post really good posts.)