NaPM April 18 2014

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Topic 18: today's prompt was sent to me by a friend who says it was from a book of prompts - write a poem about what is under your house.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[Mopkins]

CORru/GATed/ IRon sheets
underNEATH/ the HOUSE
FROM the/ SHED that/FELL over.
underNEATH/ my BLOUSE
HEAR my/ HEART a’/ RACing as
there beNEATH/ the SHEETS
PEEK i/HOPing/ THERES nothing
in beTWEEN/-reTREAT
BACKwards/WHEN un/EXPected
by me SNAKE/ apPEARS
SHOULD have/ LEFT it/ WELL alone
its been THERE/ for YEARS

[cidermaid]

Not a poem just a flow of free thoughts that i can use anothr day. (Under my house there is soil, cow poo and the odd bone...not very inspiring , so...)

There’s a marmalade mine under my house

In Permian red rocks,
strands of orange peel were deposited in the sands
of a desert, at a time when Britain lay close to the equator,
somewhere around two hundred and fifty one million years ago.
This desert was created by intense erosion of wild orange groves
that grew on mountains that were formed by vast crust upheavals
in the preceding Carboniferous period.

There is a fault line
that runs from left to right through Devon;
because of a unique combination of substructures
it erupted in a Pyroclastic Flow
of coarse cut marmalade, breccias and lime pebbles,
that boiled up through six other layers to be exposed at Solland.

The resultant confection was then cooled by mineral
water, filtered in lime and glass lined tunnels
which directly connects the Alps to the marmalade seams.
In constant use from early times, the marmalade
is highly sought after as a local delicacy
and to water proof home made coracles.

[Brownlie]

Not a poem just a flow of free thoughts that i can use anothr day. (Under my house there is soil, cow poo and the odd bone...not very inspiring , so...)

There’s a marmalade mine under my house

In Permian red rocks,
strands of orange peel were deposited in the sands
of a desert, at a time when Britain lay close to the equator,
somewhere around two hundred and fifty one million years ago.
This desert was created by intense erosion of wild orange groves
that grew on mountains that were formed by vast crust upheavals
in the preceding Carboniferous period.

There is a fault line
that runs from left to right through Devon;
because of a unique combination of substructures
it erupted in a Pyroclastic Flow
of coarse cut marmalade, breccias and lime pebbles,
that boiled up through six other layers to be exposed at Solland.

The resultant confection was then cooled by mineral
water, filtered in lime and glass lined tunnels
which directly connects the Alps to the marmalade seams.
In constant use from early times, the marmalade
is highly sought after as a local delicacy
and to water proof home made coracles.

You know when I saw this prompt I actually thought to myself that I would need to consult a geologist to write this one.

[painter not a poet]

Under the boards and beams of a house from 1893

Lumpy, bumpy, bricks of clay
Wormy, squirmy, squiggles away
A jar of coins, a marble, a nail
what could you see if you tunneled there?
A bone, a wire, a sewage line
All these treasures trapped in time
Lumpy, bumpy, bricks of clay
Wormy, squirmy, squiggles away

[Erthona]

There's a bull snake under my house,
I like him fine cause he eats the mouse,
at least until he's up in the walls,
and rattles my teeth and dishes and all.
But still I am fond of him, he does as he should,
and though I dislike snakes, this one is good,
and should he pass, and be no more,
I'll have to get another one from the store!

[ellajam]

Securely planted, deep in place
atop a solid granite ledge,
attached into the mountain face
securely planted deep. In place
of freedom, settled in its space,
an eaglet with no urge to fledge,
securely planted, deep in place,
atop a solid granite ledge.

---

Under the boards and beams of a house from 1893

Lumpy, bumpy, bricks of clay
Wormy, squirmy, squiggles away
A jar of coins, a marble, a nail
what could you see if you tunneled there?
A bone, a wire, a sewage line
All these treasures trapped in time
Lumpy, bumpy, bricks of clay
Wormy, squirmy, squiggles away

Welcome to pigpen NaPM.

[ChristopherSea]

Digs under House

We bury things beneath our homes,
normally unmentionables.
Odd treasures most could do without,
but one day, have a need for them:

Chocolate bars grandma gave to us
just before our daily meals.
Mother deemed it sabotage,
but it was grandma buying love.

Yellow pills that mother swallowed
when we were behaving badly.
Curious, we pilfered them
to know what made her happy.

Cans of baked beans and baby peas
that my tasteless Dad made us eat.
They will keep for centuries,
until the next apocalypse.

Gory horror magazines
my parents would not let us read;
those images kept me up at night,
but now I'm awake for no reason.

R-rated movie videos
that babysitters let us watch,
less disturbing than the nightly News
with body counts from Viet Nam.

Tumblers our aunts offered secretly
filled with cocktail potions,
which made the silly games we played
the center of attention.

Tainted panties cousins flashed,
on those special holidays;
I’ve never looked at Tweety Bird
in such a naughty way.

Knobby knees of distant uncles
that had us straddle them like ponies;
I'm glad that was the only thing
that pounded against my hiney.

Mr. Rodger’s Play Boy collection
boxed up high in the attic.
We never saw those girls next door,
they were from another planet.

Beat generation poetry,
flaunting homosexuality,
but Ginberg’s hairy anatomy
scared us straight eternally.

Ribbons of semen expelled weekly
for models in their lingerie.
Thank you Cosmopolitan-
for showing us what to do with these.

Some things we hide in the crawl space,
where they are less conspicuous,
but we can dig them up again
when the madness of life digs at us.

[Brownlie]

Digs under House

We bury things beneath our homes,
normally unmentionables.
Odd treasures most could do without,
but one day, have a need for them:

Chocolate bars grandma gave to us
just before our daily meals.
Mother deemed it sabotage,
but it was grandma buying love.

Yellow pills that mother swallowed
when we were behaving badly.
Curious, we pilfered them
to know what made her happy.

Cans of baked beans and baby peas
that my tasteless Dad made us eat.
They will keep for centuries,
until the next apocalypse.

Gory horror magazines
my parents would not let us read;
those images kept me up at night,
but now I'm awake for no reason.

R-rated movie videos
that babysitters let us watch,
less disturbing than the nightly News
with body counts from Viet Nam.

Tumblers our aunts offered secretly
filled with cocktail potions,
which made the silly games we played
the center of attention.

Tainted panties cousins flashed,
on those special holidays;
I’ve never looked at Tweety Bird
in such a naughty way.

Knobby knees of distant uncles
that had us straddle them like ponies;
I was glad that was the only thing
that pounded against my hiney.

Mr. Rodger’s Play Boy collection
boxed up high in the attic.
We never saw those girls next door,
they were from another planet.

Beat generation poetry,
flaunting homosexuality,
but Ginberg’s hairy anatomy
scared us straight eternally.

Ribbons of semen expelled weekly
for models in their lingerie.
Thank you Cosmopolitan-
for showing us what to do with these.

Some things we hide in the crawl space,
where they are less conspicuous,
but we can dig them up again
when the madness of life digs at us.

A lot of situations to reflect on here, good stuff. As well as the metaphorical stuffing of things in a hidden place mixed with the actuality of doing so. Very sad.

[ChristopherSea]

Digs under House

We bury things beneath our homes,
normally unmentionables.
Odd treasures most could do without,
but one day, have a need for them:

Chocolate bars grandma gave to us
just before our daily meals.
Mother deemed it sabotage,
but it was grandma buying love.

Yellow pills that mother swallowed
when we were behaving badly.
Curious, we pilfered them
to know what made her happy.

Cans of baked beans and baby peas
that my tasteless Dad made us eat.
They will keep for centuries,
until the next apocalypse.

Gory horror magazines
my parents would not let us read;
those images kept me up at night,
but now I'm awake for no reason.

R-rated movie videos
that babysitters let us watch,
less disturbing than the nightly News
with body counts from Viet Nam.

Tumblers our aunts offered secretly
filled with cocktail potions,
which made the silly games we played
the center of attention.

Tainted panties cousins flashed,
on those special holidays;
I’ve never looked at Tweety Bird
in such a naughty way.

Knobby knees of distant uncles
that had us straddle them like ponies;
I'm glad that was the only thing
that pounded against my hiney.

Mr. Rodger’s Play Boy collection
boxed up high in the attic.
We never saw those girls next door,
they were from another planet.

Beat generation poetry,
flaunting homosexuality,
but Ginberg’s hairy anatomy
scared us straight eternally.

Ribbons of semen expelled weekly
for models in their lingerie.
Thank you Cosmopolitan-
for showing us what to do with these.

Some things we hide in the crawl space,
where they are less conspicuous,
but we can dig them up again
when the madness of life digs at us.

A lot of situations to reflect on here, good stuff. As well as the metaphorical stuffing of things in a hidden place mixed with the actuality of doing so. Very sad.

Thanks, I keep trying to think of valuable things to hide under the house, but could only come up with bad things, so it became a metaphor to stash unwanted memories.

[Keith]

The dark room den

It could have been penned by Enid Blyton,
a bunch of kids finding a secret panel,
peeling back the carpet in the pantry,
a hidden door to the houses underbelly
we even had a dog.

Through a small wooden frame we found our room
carpeted with an off-cut from the last years lounge
this quickly became our hideaway,
furnished with bits from the rubbish tip,
complete with candles and a tape recorder.

It was from that control centre our cases were solved,
neatly wrote up and filed in a box,
including the mystery of the milk bottle tops.
When neighbours complained of damage done early
by visiting vandals or something more scary.

I would just like to say that I’m here to report
and the dark room mob would swear this in court.
That while number 10 slept away with their dreams,
it was a sparrow that had it away with their cream.