Long Attic Poems
Long Attic Poems. Below are the most popular long Attic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Attic poems by poem length and keyword.
It is December 26th just in time
another Christmas gone time to unwind
No more eggnog or yule log
No more bright lights or caroling at night
No more fruit cake or candy canes
Just piles of colorful wrapping paper remains
It was good with presents under the Christmas tree
It was great helping those in need
The church celebrations were delightful
All the cheerful decorations a sight full
The children so dear with family who care
Festive foods yummy treats too much to eat
All through November into December, Christmas music played
Every where every place sales for the holiday
Back Friday, Cyber Monday, spend spend spend
Receiving that third ugly sweater with it you win
Sending and receiving Christmas cards
Searching for addresses near and far
The street corner Santa's ringing bells
Christmas movies and TV show marathons season filled
Wrapping presents switching to gift bags
All so expensive but it seems less than you had
Remembering Christmases and love ones of Christmas past
Hoping for new Christmas memories to last
Taking down decorations from storage attic
Decorating over and over like an addict
Than taking them down and storing again
Christmas traditions never ever end
All for this holiday born the savior we yearned
To the world his sacrifice our salvation earned
Christmas has meaning we sometimes forget about
and with that stay grateful and never be all Christmas out.
thee deep seated hatred gnarling
at ones soul beckoning eating away
of the sheer foundation of self
a terrifying entity alive and well
searching the innermost calm
of a peaceful being believing in
the purity of goodness only to
behold the hidden shallow virtue
of demonic human angst being
carried out between the realms
of envy curled up beyond a quaint
sudden rapture gathered above
a sinking notion of the death
of human compassion hindered so
to the point of no refuge from envy
forced to end ones on life in return
comes across quite appealing rather
than behold the mere notion that envy
has crawled inside the attic of your mind
hatred employs wrath murdering my soul
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Upon the hallowed ground past midnight sighs
'Neath trembling yews and tombstones cold and sere
Did I espy, as the tempest began to rise
A maiden clothed in spectral white appears
Her ghostly raiment danced upon the restless air
Her visage pale with sorrow finely drawn
Betwixt the graves she glided into our ghastly affair
Her presence enthralling as the coming dawn
Within her hand a missive she pressed
Gloved fingers clad in evening’s formal hue
She whispered with the wind, she, a soul distressed
“Seek thou the attic there thy fate is due”
Anon the gale did whisk her form away
(Formerly known as Mrs. Emily)
And left me alone to ponder till the day
Epilogue:
After this wraithlike wedding of our souls
I cannot abjure this vision
In my mind it rolls and rolls as it goes
Original poem - For Grandma
You died grandma and my heart was broken,
At your funeral I stood there trembling;
And in the name of love words were spoken,
I needed to speak words without weeping.
Me, standing up front holding my papers,
There was a soft breeze caressing my hair;
I looked at your coffin and the flowers,
Oh, how I wished this was just a nightmare.
I started to speak in such a sad voice,
And then, I felt your great strength within me;
I spoke of your life so all could rejoice,
So filled with your love that I spoke so free.
Then, I felt the papers go fluttering,
And in the name of love, I was speaking.
___________________________
New poem - Always For Grandma
And in the name of love, I was speaking,
As they put your coffin into the ground;
I looked calm but inside I was screaming,
Staying, until birds were the only sound.
Then, I went to the quiet of your home,
Wandering, I touched all your precious things;
And even to the attic, I went to roam,
Oh, grandma, your strength gave my poems wings.
It was you who gave me my first journal,
And you said, write it, write down all the pain;
My love for you grandma, is eternal,
And at last I wept, and outside was rain.
I lingered there for hours with memories,
Within me grandma, safe are your stories.
______________________
February 28, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/Always For Grandma
Copyright Protected, ID 16-765-513-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Famous Last Line
sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
she once found calm in the rain
it brought her back to this world
her light was bright and the colors were at their most symbolic
that is, until the rain stopped
then the familiar pain popped
she once found solace in a storm
it freed her from times long 'forgotten' in the attic of her mind
her sun was shining and at its most radiant
that is, until the storm passed
then the familiar pain harassed
then one day became too many days
an unfortunate drought constructed an art museum with a lock that could not be undone
the dryness only became dryer and the heat of the continuing, suffocating moment was just way too much for her to bear
it is at that very moment that she found it getting much too hard to breathe and to cope
it is then when her favorite song began to play......'STARRY STARRY NIGHT.......'
i wonder now if you merge your tears with vincent,
and when they fall here on the grounds of earth, does Understanding merge and prevail
Lost dolls, forgotten in the attic,
Neglected and left to gather dust,
Their once-loved beauty is losing its magic.
Their appeal is fading as fashions adjust.
But one day, they were rediscovered.
Their box opened with a gasp of surprise.
Among the dolls, one had been recovered.
Her timeless charm, with no compromise.
She was not like the others, you see.
Her beauty was not based on trends.
Her allure was not ephemeral or fleeting.
And her appeal would never depend.
Her porcelain skin was still flawless.
Her hair still shone like a golden sun.
Her eyes still sparkled with enchantment.
She was a treasure, second to none.
And so she was dusted and polished.
And displayed in a place of honor,
The timeless doll was cherished.
Her value is forever a wonder.
In a world that's ever-changing,
life, with such love wide-ranging.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
While men worked hard until the barn was built,
the womenfolk were gathered for a bee.
They pieced together patches for a quilt
and chatted with the new bride happily.
Upon this handmade quilt were babies laid,
and eldest daughters passed the heirloom down.
That barn became the place where children played
as houses multiplied. There grew a town.
The quilt, once shown with pride, became forgot,
and decades in an attic it was stored.
One day a fire blazed; the things not sought
stayed in the loft, while saved were things adored.
And so a bride’s first gift in ashes lay;
its glory long ago had passed away.
by Andrea Dietrich
For Nette Onclaude's Contest:
"Anything Handmade"
Trapped in her own web,
The sound of music was a bit loud,
As the dj played song after song,
I saw you sipping your 1st martini ,
Walked towards you with a smile,
You said you needed a guy,
To forget your past and troubles,
I was to save you from your own misery,
I knew you were damaged,
But I could not help but fall for you,
Now its seems to be years trapped in this web
In this cycle,
In this past,
My flashbacks ring like bells in my own head,
As you ransacked my room,
Accusing me of being a cheat,
All I needed was your love,
Now my attic room is full of misery,
Untidy and trashy,
I can’t let you go,
Yet you tarnish my name,
To my friends my work mates,
Every time you say goodbye you come back again,
Every guy you see reminds you am better than them,
Looking for love in the wrong places,
I shed a tear of sadness and pity for you
I know this is the last tantrum I will have to bear with
As I Close the door behind
"garbage in, garbage out...sometimes you gotta clean out the mental closet"_ quote by poet
junk
in the attic
of the mind,
lingering on;
gradually
gathering dust.
cumbersome junk
of tossed aside woes
piling up;
steadily
ballooning
into a big pile
of tainted white elephants
that clog up
my thought process.
occasional practice
of mindfulness
is my way
of clearing out
the mental clutter.
Form J - Just Write Me A New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance LaFrance
Theme chosen: Junk
Date written: 03/22/2022