Doors and passageways poems and playlist. What better way to get you started on new journeys?
Yes, that means we had to include the band Journey on our Doors & Passageways playlist. And The Doors, of course. Don’t ask where the phoenix came from; somebody thought it somehow loosely fit in with the idea of passageways.
What you might notice most about the playlist is how it works in extremes. That was an interesting surprise for the playlist creators. Somehow the very idea of a door or a passage conjures up music that is bold in either one direction or the other (very soft, or very dramatic—we spared you the absolute hardest rock, in case you are not that… extreme).
Now we’re wondering about these extremes: Maybe that’s how it works with doors? You’re either on one side or the other?
Poetry Prompt
Listen to our new Doors & Passageways playlist, then write a doors or passageways poem, including a line of the lyrics if you like. Will you work in extremes? Maybe make your poem very soft or very loud? (How would you do that? Explore.)
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a recent poem we enjoyed from Glynn…
Night Train
Standing outside,
darkness, she watches
him settle
in his seat
newspaper, magazine,
candy bar,
captain’s hat perched
carefully above
bathed in light
he turns and sees her,
smiling, he
places his palm
on the window for her
to fit her palm against
as the train begins
its first lurch
forward
Photo by Katie@!, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
______
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- Poetry Prompt: In the Wild Secret Place - January 6, 2025
- Journeys: What We Hold in Common - November 4, 2024
- Poetry Prompt: My Poem is an Oasis - August 26, 2024
Richard Maxson says
Maureen, what a great beginning for this theme with your Every Day Poems “Passage.” I enjoyed the roots as growth.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Revolving Door
Perhaps she could hear you better
If you stood closer to the door
And shouted through the
Locked passage
To which you threw away the key
To all words
Between you
Lies a closed door, sealed shut
People are strange
Sometimes the greatest distance between two
Is the other side of a one inch
Wooden portal, hanging by a thread
Ferme la porte as you go
And let the cat out one more time
People are strange
Just two doors down lives
A widower who would give his right arm
To have her back
And there you go
Spinning in and out
A revolving door gathers no moss
Or was it stones and sticks and bones
That would never harm.
No it was words, I believe.
A revolving war
Of words
The door to her heart
Slammed
Permanently shut.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
The place list is wild! My first offering is a challenge even for me. A bit of a departure….pushing the envelope a bit. I am working on another piece more “traditional” and going in decidedly different direction than the first. But hey, Tweetspeak has always been a place to practice brave, n’est pas?
Megan Willome says
I especially like the first two stanzas (more from personal experience than for any poetic reason). I also like “a revolving door gathers no moss.” That should be in a relationship textbook.
Maureen Doallas says
Love that you’re pushing the envelope over the threshold, Elizabeth.
Kathryn Dyche Dechairo says
Love this, especially the greatest distance between two is the other side of one inch. Great write.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Thank you Kathryn. Thank you very much for your feedback.
Richard Maxson says
I liked the flow of this, well placed punctuation and well omitted same. I saw words as doors and it worked well thinking of the poem like this.
Richard Maxson says
Two with doors:
A short one (A Cinquain) called Doors:
http://theimaginedjay.com/?p=516
And a longer one:
http://theimaginedjay.com/?p=514
Maureen Doallas says
Lovely cinquain.
Wonderful use of color as metaphor in your longer piece.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Two markedly different ways in which you cross the threshold into poems on passageways and doors. Being strongly affected by color in my life, I am particularly fond of the longer poem with its heavy reliance on color throughout. Both such handsome poems. This is so delightful. And so varied from one to the next.
Richard Maxson says
Thank you Maureen and Elizabeth.
Rosanne Osborne says
Watching Sam Clemens Watch
I hurried down the street certain
that I was late, that Dr. Grant
had started the procedure
without me. I slipped in the back
door of the building that housed
the pharmacy, knowing
there was a door off the hall
into the back room, the makeshift
lab where Dr. Grant conducted
experiments with my help. Down
the dark hall, I rounded the corner
and in the light of the frosted window
I saw a young boy leaning down
intently watching the room beyond
through the keyhole. I knew
immediately that it was Sammy,
that he was watching Dr. Grant
conduct an autopsy on his father.
Paralyzed, I clung to the wall
and watched in my mind what
I knew Sammy was seeing,
the examination of the offending
organ, the search for the lesion,
incriminating as Hester’s scarlet
letter, the careful incision revealing
the kidneys damaged by an excess
of Calomel, John’s self-medication
with Cook’s pills, the mercury
poisoning, the vascular sacs, notations
of syphilis in the man believed
to be Puritanical in morality, the victim
of pneumonia. I watched the hunched
back of the eleven-year-old boy shudder
at the desecration he did and did not
understand. He turned, passed me
in the hallway with unseeing eyes.
Maureen Doallas says
What a wonderful story you’ve given us!
Rosanne Osborne says
Or let’s give this one another try…
The Eye at the Keyhole
The boy leaned,
eye to metal,
heart to the cold scalpel
beyond the key-shaped
portal to maturity.
His optic chiasma
explored the lesions
as well defined as Hester’s
scarlet letter, vascular sacs
smirring morality’s image.
A father’s autopsy seared,
though vaguely understood,
keyed to curiosity
and eleven-year-old
ingenuity.
Richard Maxson says
This was interesting to see the heart (no pun intended) of the first one extracted into a shorter poem.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Wow. Wow. Wow. Speechless. How wonderful, the imagery is so vivid. This is a full length movie in a :30 second commercial. You pack a brilliant story in a quick one two punch. I love it.
Richard Maxson says
This is amazing! I have read it several times before responding. The shock you impart to us makes the ending all the more powerful.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you so much, Richard.
Here’s a little something just penned:
Heaven Knockin’
It’s no secret: Love’s
at the one end, hate
at the other, ’cause every
passage leads two ways.
It’s choice guides you
to ’em, and knowin’ gets
you through ’em; they’re
heavy, revolvin’ all day.
Swing this way or that,
in the darkness or light
but keep you head up
and high, your eyes lookin’
to the sky. ‘Cause when you
come out of hidin’, you’re
gonna hear a knockin’. It’s
heaven reopenin’ its door.
———
Feel free, anyone, to set to music. I hear it in my head as a song.
Maureen Doallas says
should read ‘but keep your head up”. Sorry for the typo.
Richard Maxson says
This would make a good song! Are you familiar with Chris Smithers? It sounds like one of his songs a little.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
And then there is this… http://www.wynnegraceappears.com/2014/01/06/The-Door
Looking forward to reading, processing and commenting everyone’s poems. 🙂 Love Monday’s here.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Shirer runs down my spine,
goose bumps raise hair
on my arms.
Try to lose this chilling feeling.
The door opens
I back up a step,
not knowing what to expect.
Been a long time he says,
I know, speaking in a raspy voice.
You kept the old place,
She leans against the door for support.
He comes closer as she reaches up
and pushes the hair from his face.
You think I need a haircut?
No, I say.
She tucks it behind his ear,
I’ve always liked it long.
He reaches up and leans his body
against the door next to mine.
Some things never change, I agree
as he draws me near.
Longing for that embrace,
I’ve missed you for years.
Your not here!
This is all just a stupid dream.
I’m standing in front of a vacant
house and you’ve been gone for years.
Tears stain my face,
The door is nailed shut.
It happens every time,
just when I think life can go on.
I come back here,
Walk up to the door,
and let you back into my mind.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Light shines off the uneven stones,
suddenly I come to a halt
the pathway ends.
The sound is that of my heart
beating wildly against the
chambers of my chest.
They all look alike!
These narrow streets with ends
that go nowhere.
I saw him, yes, he’s here,
it was him.
Many years have passed
but he stood there,
our eyes touched
we both felt it
he knew, he knew it was me.
Rushing to wear he stood,
making my way through the crowd,
I stop.
Where is he?
There, he just rounded the corner.
What’s wrong?
Why has he turned his back on me?
Our love?
Following the path of stones,
uneven, wet from rain.
Slow are my steps.
I see him go inside a door.
I walk to the end of that street.
My hand is on the door handle,
I’m going in
nothing can stop me now.
I open the door.
Kenneth Kirkpatrick says
On The Threshold
Two rooms shared a single door,
One my past, one the now,
But yet to see the future, How?
Eyes strained, brow furled… Nevermore?
In final collapse to my finitude,
I threw open the single door,
Stood on the threshold of then and now,
Screamed at the Future… Nevermore!
And silence let in, as I there stood,
Having fixed my mind on those two rooms,
To reveal a third, open windowed, view,
Of a world awaiting for me to join…
And then I saw my future there,
Yet not as made, but waiting to be,
And through that window, I had not seen,
I set the past and present free…
Slipped through that window, into the world,
To find the future waiting for me.
Ω
http://www.gopoem.com
… What We Read, Is Where We Go…
Marcy Terwilliger says
Kenneth, that was so beautiful, I felt like I was in that room and suddenly I just flew out the window like a bird set free.
Kenneth Kirkpatrick says
Thanks Marcy – I the photo of the red door and doorknob at the head of this writing prompt reminds me of so many inviting, yet antiquated doors of the homes here in Charleston, SC – in that single image of the inviting door, you also see the history of it’s wood – the past, the bright, hurried vibrance of the now in it’s red paint… and yet, the invitation to find the future, in the solid, never changing beckoning of it’s brass doornob to be turned. Never know what is behind door number three, until you open it. I appreciate your comments as always – hats off to the photographer of this image – it is ripe for the writing…
JoyAnne O'Donnell says
Natures Door
The timeless thoughts
of graceful birds
chanting lullabies
and seeds of homemade pies
grown from the fruit of poems
with homemade fudge
made from pure sugar cane
draped in curtains of taste
taking us to a bountiful hue
the door to a flavor filled chew.
JoyAnne O'Donnell says
Doors Noise
When the wind
can open and shut
times door
the lines of poems
keep a score
coming from wings
of heaven
knocking with true meanings
and wonderful human beings.
Kenneth Kirkpatrick says
The Origin Deep
Seraphic faces, shapes slicked in rubber,
With Iron Lungs strapped to their back,
Terra Firma’s tether, now growing slack,
Frog footed adventurers adrift in space,
As they slip from this world’s iron bonds,
Down the sapphire glide, of the Mother’s face.
The needles on their compass, steady…
Their heart’s desire, magnetic north…
To find in full this life’s embrace,
To see it’s bounty surging forth,
And back, into the cool blue keep,
Of the Mother’s womb, the Origin Deep.
To mend the split of time and space,
That mutes our ancient, inner voice
And molds us, holds us, in our place…
To transcend the blog of buzzing noise…
We here descend, our souls complete,
With our counterpart, the Origin Deep.
All thoughts provoked, illusions stoked,
Settle now into a listless sphere,
Where life’s divergence flows into one,
With all its’ member cast, revered.
To dance the rim of our first keep,
And unify in our Origin Deep.
Here, rivers of air, so breathe your lungs,
Here, bottomless blue, so breathes your soul,
A map of coral dot ladder rungs,
Here guides your thrust-kick vortex bold,
Pushed down, held up of nature’s law,
Of nature’s God, now drift in awe.
Then return thou, man, to landed cares,
Crawl back upon my outpost shores,
To feel your weightless flight a dream…
But leave your fins there at my door…
A manmade webbed foot monument,
To your long lost lover’s deep lament.
For token, I’ll hold your souls with me,
To find them, will your bodies yearn…
I’ll feed and clothe them as my kin,
Till you collect them on return.
When you my chamber curtains part,
And merge with me again as one…
To run the rim of life’s first keep…
And find again your Origin Deep.
Ω
http://www.gopoem.com
What we Read, is Where we Go…
Kenneth Kirkpatrick says
Being a diver, I cannot think of a more dramatic and inviting doorway or passage than the ocean itself. There is a thirst within us that is only satisfied when we slip the bonds and laws of terra firma and descend into the sea. We dive to find our souls’ completion in the depths – we cannot find them only on land – they collect their earliest memories in the depths, and that is where they are made whole – in the bosom of the Origin Deep.
JoyAnne O'Donnell says
Doors And Sunlight
Doors open the light
with beautiful sight
growing flowers
roses showers
among the green light of day
passageways to walking joys array.