Long adult Poems
Long adult Poems. Below are the most popular long adult by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long adult poems by poem length and keyword.
Shush! My dog ears caution me. Did you hear that? I stop sorting coupons, and listen, hard.
My husband is gone, and there are adult footsteps in my house.
Hypervigilant, I hear the fast increased pounding beats of my fearful heart, a ticking clock, and the blower on the air conditioner.
Sh! My imagination cautions me. SH! SH! SH!
I silence myself further, frantically wishing the blower was not so loud.
I am in the kitchen downstairs, and my innocent children are upstairs, alone, sleeping.
I flip off the light, and melt onto the floor behind my island, out of sight of the swinging door,
listening, frozen motionless with fear, waiting for the interlopers to decide our fate.
The door opens rapidly.
A stream of light lands on the block of knives on the counter.
I wish I had hidden them.
I am grabbed by both arms, and roughly brought to my feet.
“Here’s the wife,” a gruff voice says, a man’s voice.
“Sh!” the other one whispers. “Did you hear that?”
A car door slams.
My husband is home.
Shush! Did you Hear That? Written 9-15-2018
Contest Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
oh, how the pyramid, does grow and grow.
how was i to know?
i signed that dotted line, in repose.
should have dotted i’s and crossed my legs.
my first hint arrived with labor pains.
i squatted jewels – diamond, ruby, emerald.
wore expert rings with the likes of dr. spock.
i devoured each sweet honey book.
but woe to me, i thought i’d suffer solely from “empty nest”.
those birds flew high and strong, then crooked and lopsided.
i wracked my brain, contemplated walking the plank.
sleepwalking, i found profundity, a book of eureka gold.
apparently, there are experts in rearing “adult children”.
i furiously speed read, all the pages. i scanned its horizon
for clues and answers. they came with blue sky ribbons.
i slid to the floor, bewildered, wide-eyed, relieved.
then my children became experts, in rearing their own.
taught me how to use my adult voice - unlike a duck,
no squeaking allowed. and how i should let them cry,
and let them fall. who’d ever heard such crazy talk?
i’d still sign that dotted line, but with eyes open wide.
my husband and i reside at the precipice of the pyramid.
it quakes with birth pangs of shattered glass.
still, our family’s strong. none will crumble. none will fall.
Donald Trump could be
doing Jailhouse Rock.
DOJ has his head on
A chopping block.
Trumped up on
charges that
Include espionage.
Donald trying to do
The duck and dodge.
The ex-President
has dug himself in
a deep hole.
Things are starting
To spin Out of control.
A Grand Jury of peers
Signed the indictment.
Donald Trump could
Be wearing stripes
in confinement.
Mr. Jack White a
vicious opponent.
Trump is in denial,
He'll never own it.
The Feds have a 95%
Conviction rate.
This is Karma serving
Up fate.
Trump is tweeting
Somewhere in Mar a largo.
The Wheels of Justice
turn slow.
I wonder if they will
Try him as an adult?
He is claiming none
Of this is his fault
Mr. Trump is starting to
Look a little jittery.
One thing is for sure this
Will make history.
Turbo1904?
Money is always bouncing around.
When I was a kid, smaller toys seemed more in reach.
I never got a trampoline.
I don’t think my parents would let me anyway…
Until I turned 22,
And a large box showed up on the porch.
As an adult, a new car is out of reach.
But a mini trampoline?
Can be set up in my parents living room.
These days, I don’t care about being cool.
My trampoline is made for one.
These days, I come home in my rusty car.
To jump on my trampoline.
Money is always bouncing around.
Sometimes, we need to splurge.
Sometimes we need to jump.
I didn’t know how much I needed to.
Until I turned 22.
Written: September 04, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
*********
She held a blanket, such a breath—
soft, flexible, and incarnadine.
Not just fabric, but a cherished friend
who coruscated in the empyrean
of her private dusk.
To others, it was just a childhood comfort—
a trite trope of childhood ilk.
But to her, it was a jussive voice,
a cognate spirit,
a consanguineous echo
of all she dared not say aloud.
She whispered in xenoglossia to its folds,
dressed it in pavonine dreams,
and understood its silence
as a balm for dyspnea and dread.
It released her from the maelstrom
of parental tohubohu,
from the paucity of understanding
In a world too careless to listen.
Even now, her adult self
acknowledges its glamor—
a palimpsest of nepenthe and pertinacity.
She knows it was never alive,
never truly aware.
But what does that matter?
The psyche is a hive of need,
and comfort is no flapdoodle.
Whether a toy, a blanket, or an imaginary friend,
These are obstacles we overcome
to reach meliorism.
And if the child within
still clutches that scantling of solace,
let her.
In that mix of truth and delusions.
dwells the most astounding type of therapy.
the eyes of the Steiff Teddy hung from its threads
loving can take its toll when small nimble hands
poke and explore in innocent fashion and passion
what lies underneath a warm glance into the truth
the button in the animal’s ear like a hearing aid
attended to sorrows tears nightmares and joy
like a sounding board for emotions it listened
Teddy always knew how to deal with the pain
his fur was fuzzy from compassion and touch
naked patches showed signs of wear and tear
but his resolve as tested and trusted companion
never diminished and comforted the young child
the soft toy was better than a psychotherapist
and he talked way more than Freud at the couch
his messages were clearer than psycho babble
and his embracing caress secured childhood
when he growled it came from a place of support
a warning sign here and there and encouragement
not one harsh word ever came from his sweet mouth
and even today the adult cuddles him every night
sometimes simply being present is all that one needs
14th June 2021
A tender Moment from Childhood
Sponsor Malabika Ray Choudhury
That telephonic receiver sat there
quietly on the living room table
but then it would ring ring!
that made me feel real disable
I just couldn’t pick up that phone
for knowing my tongue would freeze
not one word could sound forth
just wanted to hide behind the trees
No matter how I tried to have courage
that boldness never came never at all
always left someone else to answer
for left to me it was one dark wall
That sound filled myself in fear
wishing it all to just go away
my stammer held my tongue caged
felt it just solid bit of clay
So though it’s bit easier today
telephone memories leave me dry
thinking of the dark filled days
sometimes you just want to cry
(My memories of speaking or trying to on the telephone in my schoolboy and early adult years, thankfully now in my 60s I can cope a lot better but still don't like using that telephonic contraption.)
Chenille, my friend so dear,
Your beauty isn't only clear
Your homely appearance holds a light,
A beacon of beauty in the night.
Your personality is beautiful,
It's something that I can't forget.
Your hobbies of witnessing, I see,
Bring out the best in you and me.
FRIEND SO DEAR
SO DO CARE
ALWAYS
Your favorite place to go to is the street,
Where you find joy in the people you meet.
We have been friends for a year or more,
And I'm thankful for the friendship we store.
FRIEND SO DEAR
SO DO CARE
ALWAYS
Your age group may be adult, true,
But I'm glad I have a friend like you.
You're a companion and a friend,
And I hope our friendship never ends.
6/17/2023
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023?
Recall the bike trip to Tennessee Valley
Remember the boat made of driftwood
I held in my hand the salty wet sand
How sand slips between fingers
How much was lost since he was little
When I was full of his helplessness
When he was a toddler clumps fell
As he grew into a boy and missed me less
I felt the grains of sand slip through
I envisioned him as a teenager
So little left of in that hourglass
As an adult in college, a little more fell
If he is lucky to find someone to marry
And his sand is held in someone’s hand
Mine will have reduced to grains
While my head grows frosty white
I dusted off these empty, cracked hands
Sticky pale sands between old fingers
Back to the car with my son, took off my shoes
Shook off the rocks and grains hidden in cracks
I realize now losing is an illusion
There’s always something holding on
Each grain was a reminder to remind me
Each precious moment is easily discarded
Still, the salty sand held onto me
A remainder of what is still here
When childhood slips into manhood
And I’m still holding on to the past
To the memory of that bike ride
To that boat that never floats
Ever forgetting, ever lasting
grandma never knew her name until she was an adult
and it was Helena (some kind of birth certificate mix up)
she embraced her new found name
it was lovely sliding off the lips like a waterfall
later, she found her Ojibwe roots
and I hear the drums of my ancestors in my heart beating
grandma was our family storyteller
she fascinated me and sparked my imagination
I would watch her lips as she spoke
how her voice changed
how her facial expressions changed
I never grew tired of listening to her stories
stories told over and over until her death of people and places
nothing was written down
they died with her. . . I think that was meant to be
grandma had given me a book
a journal for my small girl thoughts
and told me- write it, write it
write it, for the world to know
so I did, I wrote in my room stories about my cat and flowers
in time, I wrote of my sadness that made grandma cry
I had a gift just like Helena
I was a storyteller but in words
a poet was born
in a old attic room
I was lost in a sea of emotions
everyday over tea I would read my words for Helena,
I was able to pour my heart and soul on paper
my skill grew with me like a cool rippling stream
the drums of time ceased
for my Helena and I wrote and read her eulogy
my heart swelled with a sea of tears
then, I heard weeping echoing in the church
within the stained glass window glow
and I knew then that I had a power
Helena's gift... I had inherited
because of her I am a writer
the bond between us a delicate flower
and she had said to this sad little girl
find the sweetness in the dregs of sorrow
for life is a lighted window and a closed door
_________________________
August 3, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Her Name Was Helena
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1122-142-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.