what bed? i thought it was a jungle gym. i thought we were the vines. i thought i heard a hungry leopard gnawing at my spine. i thought you were my canopy i thought i was your fern   but after deep successive orchid breaths   i felt like parrot feathers in your arms.   ~dwright

 

why so hard to think of them arms, legs, hearts coiled tighter than these old springs?   look at that picture on the table there gramps' young eyes on gram like fire.   ~centime plus

 

THE BED   It is squat with its duty. Back unbent. Legs rigid with purpose. It contained the enterprise that conceived a young name. A child. It's wood is stained dark, dark; it is ancient. The window which the sun and moon pass by on silver and gold carriages is the eye through which this bed contemplates morning. I see the headboard gleam. Blue chequered counterpane tucked neat as ducks' plumage. The hump of pillows could be a Saxon funerary mound. Or a pregnant woman, sleeping. The bed supports a column of dusty air. Above that a column of sky-blue beyond the slates and the town's smoky enterprise. This bed is the idea of sleep. It is a deck for dreaming the impossible. Where the hand is held that could not be held. When the bed is entered it is as if going into a kingdom where new laws apply. There is no passport control. You are only asked to be contained. The bed contains you. Your dreams trust its four legs; its snow blanket of goose-down is a fall of snow that warms you. This bed has heard ring doves cooing and thought of its soft white cotton sheets wrapping children. It has felt such a weight of backs and heads. Brown slippers wait beneath it like obedient puppies. Dust lifts. The morning sun. A rug and floorboards. The bed could be a boat. A barge. Maybe it will sail the pitch waters of night. Its harbourage could be the moon.   ~Connor Jordan

 

You found a bed and breakfast shoreline, Cape Cod -    one of those charming, friendly, antique-filled inns,    with the requisite elegant dining room,    cozy tavern, and blazing fireplaces    on the premises.  And then, there is that porch -    a view of the ocean, time to walk the beach.   In our room, our bed constructed from earthy    woods, salvaged from the old barns and warehouses    of Vermont; with milk-based paint on its headboard    creating creamy colors.  Andean dyes    from walnut leaves drip over cotton muslin    coverings that slip then fall into shadow    and sun, brushing the room with linseed oil.   ~susan

 

Three houses down from our Dehaven House after almost three centuries   The Blue Bell Inn built of field stone from Pennsylvania fields   The Blue Bell Inn posits present pictures of a time where an upstairs bedroom safely harbors a down filled bed upon which he lies   tired and now as the rum steeped drink takes its toll reliving the horror   of the barefoot men the wounded men the long line of men following steadfastly but stumbling   as his own tired mount stumbles all along the way to Valley Forge.   ~DarkWind

 

My name is Emily   This is the nightstand next to my bed.   My bed is simple, empty and sumptuous.   My bed craves the warmth of another.   I keep a loaded gun under my bed.   Should the need ever arise.   ~SPK