Long Ajar Poems
Long Ajar Poems. Below are the most popular long Ajar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ajar poems by poem length and keyword.
Pie Eyed (for The Night Before Contest)
Twas the night before Christmas and I’d lost me house
I had to get home and sneak past me spouse
She’d sent me to purchase a dozen mince pies
I never expected to meet with the guys
So kicking and screaming got dragged down the pub
And entered the draw for a hamper of grub
If I didn’t win, she’d find out my sin
And my Christmas dinner would be in the bin
Had a few beers and then a few more
The tannoy announced it was time for the draw
Yippee, I won it, but didn’t win big
I opened the basket and had a good dig
About as much use as a bucket of dung
Biscuits for cheese, soup, pilchards and tongue
Checked out the clock and resigned to my fate
I staggered off home in a right wobbly state
Not finding one’s house might seem rather bleak
Perhaps I should mention we’d lived there a week
And then there it was, front door open wide
I nipped up the stairs once I’d nipped inside
Then I found the bedroom door slightly ajar
My wife’s standing there in her panties and bra
But then I thought, ‘My wife ain’t got shapely thighs’
And that’s when her husband punched out me mince pies
So blackened and bruised, with my own doorbell rung
I suffered the wrath of my wife’s wicked tongue
28 November 2018
The Night Before Contest
Sponsor - Joseph May
All have hassles their own,
All with own fate upset,
With whom to pour my heart?
Under roof-- one common
All suffer self-sown fate,
With whom to pour my heart?
Sad tales, not so unknown,
They all seem to narrate,
With whom to pour my heart?
No one is left alone
If we search, sort, ferret,
With whom to pour my heart?
Blares every gramophone,
Each all so aloud set,
With whom to pour my heart?
All have a chewing bone
Their own, and no free date,
With whom to pour my heart?
O to wait for that dawn
Where world is not jet set
To pour my bleeding heart.
Till then I’ve to just frown
And endure, my teeth grate,
Till I’ve souls to pour heart.
All people tend to moan
It’s this nature I hate--
Too ready to pour heart.
With all in such zone
That keeps an ajar gate
To cry, where I my heart?
____________________
Ghazal |16.02.2025| sympathy, heart
Note: The six lines of each stanza here in essence make only a couplet--just two lines. There are two rhymes and two refrains.
We met during a stormy winter day
When I was vulnerable and in a bad way
I remember being in my car and breaking down
On that desolate country road, no one around
Snow started to fall and the roads were getting icy
My cell was not working as the roads are now dicey
I then saw the headlights approaching through the snow
I hoped they stop, as I had no way, I could call or go
The truck stopped and a gorgeous man came to my car
He asked if I needed help, I told him yes with my door ajar
He smiled as his eyes twinkled, he said his name was Jake
I smiled and thought, I just might be the asylum of your ache
We ended up staying at Where the Orchid’s Dream Inn
I felt a strong physical attraction as we went to check-in
There was one room left, the honeymoon suite
I felt it was fate as his eyes sparkled and his smile so sweet
It was a night to remember but one I also would like to forget
A time to reflect on the lesson and not focus on the regret
It was passionate as I remember, I was trapped in your pulse
The world seemed to stop, and I could think of nothing else
The next day he was gone and it was a sad surprise
I thought I was safe, he was genuine, maybe a disguise
My wallet was emptied and my cell phone was gone
I now felt sad and used like an old country song
The clerk at the Inn said Jake called me a cab
He also left a note and said he paid the tab
And thanked me for the fun night, I felt uncouth
No apology, as I thought, now I can taste your truth
Etched in my soul
is the peace of a lonely ruin,
an old chapel on the skull
of a hill surrounded by pastureland
and wind-swept trees.
Below a lake stretches into the distance,
its waves lapping the mottled shores,
its waters harboring a variety of fishes,
its surface mutating according to nature's whims.
I lie on my bed in my urban hovel,
a small window opened ajar,
I smell the effluvial stink of the dirty alley,
I hear the hellish hustle and bustle
of the mad world outside,
the world that rejected me, leaving me jobless
on the verge of homelessness
on the brink of famine.
Like a somnambulist, I walk away
like a drugged addicted old man,
and limp towards my haven far away.
The way is long, and torturous, and steep.
I fall, get up, knees bleeding, but keep on
until at last I reach the top where silence reigns.
What did I expect to find here?
I look down as the earth stretches before me.
And wonder what must He had felt
with a panorama such as this
as He hang on a tree,
blood dripping from a thousand wounds.
There was no silence then but only jeers.
Here on the skull of my haven is silence and peace
and I wonder: would there have been
silence and peace, had He
not died so many years ago?
There is a pleasure in the wayward wood;
unmapped, where none have been or stood;
To revel in a reckless romp on a rampant shore.
To mingle with the Universe, with chaos in its core.
Please sir! Shake me, but never a stir.
Keep my flavors apart, avoid the blended blur;
for the glass remembers what has passed before,
and wants to shake me up, for once and ever more.
Mingling begins when friends refuse
to dance together, or to cuddle or schmooze.
The fracture hums, the doorway is left ajar,
inviting others in to outshine the star.
The sacred shun, while the silly can mix so readily,
wanting to see, and be seen, out there so steadily;
joining in, and dancing with everyone,
full of verve and fervor, playing in the sun.
Mingling loosens the taut, tense edges of self,
no longer locked away like bookends on a shelf.
We find that joining in does not split us apart,
but twines the threads of inclusion around the heart.
Shaken and softly poured, but never stirred,
the self converges, confluent; it's never blurred.
Becoming a course, and an unique ingredient,
that has a discrete taste, immediate and expedient.
the crescent moon cradles her
as though she were a secret
the sky has waited all evening to tell.
clouds gather close,
puffed and pearled,
soft as breath against her cheeks.
two hot-air balloons rise slowly,
their lantern-lit bellies glowing
like patient wishes ascending.
she follows their drifting,
steady as small promises,
moving with the quiet certainty
of things that already know
where wonder first opens.
she dreams again~
not of anything rooted,
but of the hidden chambers
where night tucks away
its tender, unspoken stories.
she imagines the moon ajar,
a doorway into silver-stitched realms
where clouds rise like steps,
and every drifting balloon
carries a secret meant
only for her hands to open.
she dreams the sky is listening,
waiting for her to whisper
the first question she’s ever dared
to ask out loud.
she dreams of walking
across the moon’s bright curve,
barefoot and unafraid,
leaving small crescent footprints
that shimmer behind her
like a trail of soft astonishment.
she dreams of becoming the kind of girl
who can read the wind,
who can hear the hush inside a cloud’s slow turning,
who can follow a balloon all the way to its reason.
as she drifts deeper into the night’s gentle blue,
the moon smiles wider~
because it knows
she is dreaming herself
into someone braver
than she was yesterday~
someone who understands
that the sky is not above her but around her,
holding her,
carrying her,
teaching her how to rise.
The old fashioned monsoons
Meant for the flowers and cacti of Arizona California
And New Mexico
Have fled those deserts and dusty reservoirs
To find a new friend instead in Michigan
Up here in the Great Lakes
We’re not used to summer waterfalls
And sweaty doors
Swollen
Refusing to fit their frames
Stair railings sticky to the grab of hands
Hostas
Soaked and dripping
From late afternoon and overnight rain
Shaking their elephant ears
To the canes of a next-day morning sun
Shimmering to the swab of legendary Bumblebees
Lavender born again
We should fill our canteens with this new paradise
Wait at the edge of our frontier with these gifts
For our brother and sister American migrants
Who will crawl here on their knees
At some point
Or we could build a “great beautiful wall
It’ll cool down”
To keep those parched rapists murderers and deniers out
At least
Until this dusty herd of yesteryear
Moves past us and with us
Up the stairs to Canada
And then it will be we
Who knock on that door
Ajar
To see if we are allowed in
From there?
In a someday soon?
It will be like the Earth’s atmosphere itself
Peeling off into space for the barren moon
Mars or Neptune.
Open Up Your Eyes
By Franklin Price
9/23/2015
Open up your eyes and see
the World in its stupidity.
On TV watching ones afar;
misplaced ones to doors ajar
Thousands fleeing, disrupting all,
from native lands about to fall
To some new place to find respect
without much thought how to connect.
Where will they go? Who will accept?
Their treatment what? At most inept.
What will they do? Where will they work?
Once they have fled some tyrant jerk.
Should they have stayed and fought the fight?
Should they return against the might?
Should the able help? What's right is right.
Should they fall into abysmal night?
Refugees from everywhere
fleeing places without care.
From rulers all, without a clue;
next thing you know they could be you
The United States, I must confess,
In many ways have caused this mess
Have pushed our ways most everywhere
Interfered much more than should have dared
We citizens stood by to view
As politicians stirred the stew
Pushed by the rich; the selfish few.
That's no surprise. It's nothing new
Now we are here. What can we do?
Now that we, through choice, have stirred the stew.
Must take care, the choices made
Through strength must act; not be afraid.
With allies act to stop the flow
Give the misplaced their homes to go
Make homelands safe for them to be
Or the refugees are you and me.
The Universe—no Hourglass—
Unspills its silent Sand—
No Final Bell—no Curfew rung—
By any mortal Hand—
It keeps its Secrets—like the Sea—
That never quite admits
Whether it ends—or merely folds
Its Shores to other Fits—
A Star—may seem to Perish—
Yet only learns to Hide—
As Truth—when pressed by Time—slips on
An Everlasting Side—
If Birth be but a Door ajar—
And Death—another Frame—
Then Motion is Eternity
And Stillness—just a Name—
I ask no Priest—nor Telescope—
To certify the Whole—
The Infinite—confides itself
In Pulses—felt by Soul—
So let the Theorist—be still—
And hear what Silence knows—
The Eternal—does not Argue—
Where it simply—Goes—
The charming face of apple tree this morning
has brought me here to this page to interpret
that the moment I look at those deep eyes
a machination of pine forests pulls me into
And as for the deep red shutters at the front door
they, even when closed, seem to motion at me
into the clouds of a see under a full moon
A hypnotizing call I am afraid of answering
When the shutters are ajar in a half smile
it's a wild flame of deep orange colors
ready to accompany me for miles and miles
while pushing me deep into its tipsy odour
A thousand birds come out as I stare at her
a current in the spine as the branches begin to stir