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.
26/2/2012
By Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Contest: treasure trove
Austerely laid my eyes firmly on my garden far side
Tattered page piles, from my attic treasure trove, littered outside.
I picked up a dog eared page of the days of sitting together,
In this garden, cuddling and smooching in cold weather.
On such a glorious winter day, I scribbled on this page love notes,
A long time ago, by the way, in double quotes
Nostalgic now the dismal, Melancholy tenors that fill in,
Memories of “au revoir”, replete my poignant heart to its brim.
A wind now blows this dog eared page & it flies by the old gum tree
Dully chase it with some rage &as I see the page, begin to read all about me……………..
For the last two lines, the paper is vacant void & bare,
Heart’s healed wounds to open with quinine drenched text I would not dare.
Living in fear of trou-de-loup
Jittering teeth as terror unfurls
Fingers of mist become pea soup
Unfamiliar with alien world.
Muffled sound hear dog bark
I think Hound of Baskerville
Vision has fled but fear is stark
Paralyzed ridged standing still.
Wendigo watching I am sure
Dorian Gray has left his attic
Amityville Horror is there more?
Spectors stalking truly traumatic.
Staggered onward now am home
Shaking fingers grip house key
Horror unfolds am not alone
The Changeling awaits just for me.
Information: Pea soup fog is caused by air pollution that contains soot particulates and poisonous gas. There was a particularly nasty one in 1952 London
image by KellePics Pixabay
I can't stand a food fanatic
They dine at my house, and want gluten free
I just smile and look enigmatic
Ignoring their wishes doesn't bother me.
For the vegans, I include an egg
For vegetarians, I sprinkle in beef
For teetotalers, I use beer from a keg
If they knew, they'd punch me in the teeth.
But why should I humor a food fanatic
Why should I waste precious cooking time
They're all nuts, like my aunt in the attic
Wasting good food is to me a crime.
I'm a meat and potatoes guy myself
Dunkin Doughnuts and McDonalds are good enough for me
A couple of drinks haven't ruined my health
Why should I honor their idiocy?
But I raise a question, because I must
Should we respect nonsense requests?
Are we betraying a trust
Or encouraging people to be pests?
Truthfully I'm a food fanatic
This whole poem is just a lie
I've weak, even my walk is erratic
But I'll stick with my diet, don't ask me why.
No tellin' how long coronavirus will keep me confined at home,
Since the guv'ner insists that I wash my hands and I'm not to roam!
It has upset my routine since its genesis in a place called Wuhan,
But it'll give me time to do things around here that need doin'!
I really need to remove last fall's leaves that accrued in the gutter,
And 'twould be the perfect time to clear the attic of its clutter.
There are piles of books in my library that I've put off readin',
And the flower beds and garden need a thorough weedin'.
The windows need washin' to clear them of winter's grime,
And I need to repair the clock that is gradually losin' time.
Since spring has arrived the lawn sure needs fertilizin',
And to get rid of winter's flab, I need to do more exercisin'!
But hold on! This list of chores sounds too much like work!
Some day I'll tackle these jobs, but for now, them I opt to shirk!
So I think I'll just take it easy and compose a poem today,
But for the life of me I cannot think of a thing to say!
I used to like to go up into the attic when I was a young child. I was alone up there, away from authority, able to explore that dark quiet world at my leisure. My cousin Corky, he was 10 years older than me built model airplanes up there, by the light of two small windows. I remember him testing their engines in our yard. That wild screaming sound they made as they ran brought me more peace than any morning dove or nightingale ever did. He was gone now, in the service for a few years taking care of the country. Giving up a bit of himself for the privilege of being an American. I missed him dearly. I felt good when he was with me. Safe.
I saw the intricate frame of a large wing he built before he had left for his service. It hung from one of the rafters. A graceful curve of balsa wood crafted out of a set of plans that lay on his desk. Pinned to another section of those plans, laid out on his workbench was the beginnings of a rudder. There were wood and paper, paint and pins, and glue neatly stacked everywhere. I couldn't wait to see him again, watch him finish yet another of those beautiful airplanes, and hear its engine roar. I thought about all the other planes he had built and wondered where they had gone.
Some time later, when he had returned after completing his service, I was with him in our yard. We were talking about all those models he had built over the years. He told me the story of that last plane. Of how he finished it and then proudly flew it. And then how he had removed the control lines, its tether to earth, doused it in the last of his engine fuel, then watched it fly away in flames.
I asked him why... how someone could put their heart and soul into something, create it with their own hands all the way from the very bounds of one's intellect, a thing of grace and beauty. Then watch it dissolve into the past. As if there was some justification for its existence within its demise. I asked him again why he just didn't keep that plane but he only talked about seeing it fly away in flames. At that point in both our young lives neither of us really knew.
Francis J Grasso ©2018.11.14
My best friend was on the phone,
laughing like a great aunt who had lost her mind
“Joe thought it was dead, but then he saw it making reservations with the dog,” I informed her. “We have a bunch of mice here, many pregnant.
Joe is sleeping outside in the car.
Yes....
My husband of forty-eight years is a bit prissy about small black rodents
full of diseases that run over his foot.
I was in the attic now, a dreary place where I barely dared to put down my lemonade for fear bats would be dive bombing into it or disemboweled entities would be spooking the dog who was crying at the bottom of the steps she cannot climb.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
I could not tell which pile or garbage bag was making this curious sound.
Raccoons in the attic? Large insane squirrels? A homeless person living with us for the last sixteen years?
“I have to go,” I told my friend. “Family emergency.” I clicked her off.
My friends are okay with my rude ways, choosing to love me anyway.
The noise kept coming.
My attention was suddenly in a corner of a large wiggling garbage bag.
A mouse popped out of the top of it and ran toward me.
Then sixty-two more, a fountain of mice,
running in all directions.
I went downstairs and told my husband there was a black bag I could not lift.
I wandered to the kitchen to fix myself a light lunch, my favorite, a peanut butter, Miracle Whip, lettuce sandwich. I had to scoot two mice off the top
of the peanut butter lid.
But I said "excuse me" of course.
I nearly dropped a gallon of milk when I heard his scream.
I imagine he scared every last rodent out of the house.
Joe is my go-to-man.
like a warm breath of air,
he hovers in my memory.
no Superman in other’s eyes,
a meek soul, but for me a true legend.
he was a jack of all trades.
he epitomized love and gentleness.
hard-working and committed to his family,
he was not one to squander his time.
he toiled day in and out
to feed those who he loved and sired.
what was he?
a teacher, a farmer, or an artist?
I cannot say precisely...
all I can say;
he was each of these
rolled into one.
I don’t think there was anyone like him around.
he was my English teacher at school,
and how proud I am of all that he taught me.
on holidays I saw him
shut in the loft, a brush in hand,
his fingers moving over the canvas.
the steaming tea by his side,
untouched and getting cold as ice.
unmindful of everything around,
he sat by the easel in the attic.
focused only on the strokes that fell.
when a distinct image shoots out,
as the moon from behind clouds,
a wave of satisfaction would gleam
across his face,
his frantic nerves at once hushed
bearing the look of one
who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms.
he would view it from different angles.
never seek anyone’s opinion
but gloating if he saw
our admiring eyes fell on it.
he was an avid reader too
and a skilled photographer.
the black and white photos
he caught in his camera still adorn our walls.
being artistically inclined,
he lived more in the world of art.
but gradually things changed.
to his fright, he found his hands shaky
and the lines on the canvas
going tremulous and disjointed.
couldn’t hold a brush!
the zealous man grew numb,
as the curtain of years fell on his stage!
on diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease,
his world abruptly lost its sheen.
he saw the disease weeding
its way into his life.
suddenly grown old,
he lost interest in everything.
we saw him sitting in his armchair,
so immobile, for hours on end,
his eyes stretched to a far horizon.
we displayed before him,
paintings once born of his imagination
to see if his world would brighten
and it worked!
recently, in one of my dreams,
I saw him sitting at the feet of Michael Angelo,
to learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
in his lifetime!
Where did she go- she left me in a spin,
with words disjointed- where do I begin?
She took my thoughts held tight within her arms,
and now I fear I'm left without her charms.
My missing thoughts and words in pieces lay;
without a plan, they'll stay in disarray.
Where did she go, that artist of my soul?
Without her lead- no thoughts, no words, no goal.
My muse is on the loose- oh help me, please!
She's gone for good- or is this just a tease?
My muse is on the loose, what happens now?
I'm crushed, forsaken- this I can't allow.
I looked into the den where books are kept;
high up, upon the shelves, and then I crept
down cellar stairs among the antiques there-
returning to the second-story stair.
I looked in every corner, neath the bed;
no sign of her, but then I soon was led
up to the attic by its window view-
entranced, she sat, and that is when I knew.
My muse was on the loose to find new scenes,
and now beside her, inspiration streams.
The vision of the mountains, valleys, sky-
so beautiful it made me gasp and sigh.
Together we sat weaving thoughts and words
while hearing the sweet lullaby of birds.
I learned a poet's muse must be set free-
sometimes to find new views successfully.
September 4, 2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: When There Is No Inspiration
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 10/08/2020
~3rd Place~
Contest: Strand Select 5
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 01/07/2020
~2nd Place~
Premiere Contest: Muse On The Loose
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 09/12/2016
(Iambic Pentameter in Couplets)
She dances under stars
'Cause that's the place to be
When black is the color
Blood is the need
That makes existing in a way
Nor live nor dead
Acceptable in finality
Agreeable in purity
Apocalyptic in power
Abject in submission.
The stars fill the night and do not judge
For they are just the lamplights of eternity
Scattered through the empty attic
Everything stumbles through
She just waits, dancing in her corner
For some hapless mortal groping through the dark
To fall into her arms, that she may feed
To draw his life to her as only her kind may
"The Blood is the Life", how true, how true -
So dance and draw it home
To one who appreciates it.
The stars will never judge
For they are the sparks of a fire
Whose tender has long since turned away;
So dance whenever black is the color
Blood the need;
Night's children know the truth:
Be true to what you are;
Apologies are for sycophants -
Triumph is for those who know themselves.
Written February 04, 2025, For contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: Let the vintage box gather dust; it seems like no one will ever open it or discover it. By Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unseal all that unscathed trove of
treasured stories,
where the sweet fragrance of rejuvenating
Petrichor soaks the atmosphere.
A captivating aroma saturates
the serene and radiant
space of the attic.
whispers of memories linger
in every nook
where neglect softly nestles.
Gentle whispers of tales emerge from
a soothing sanctuary
seamlessly woven together.
Wicker wonders once filled with warmth,
now stand still,
cloaked in contemplative musings
that meander quietly by.
Revitalized by luminous, enchanting nights,
they bask in the brilliance
of the extraordinary stars above.
In the den, the resonance of
ancestral wisdom persists.
Graceful faces are captured in
the gentle passage of time.
Stories of celebration and
joyous laughter is woven together—
Imprints on lives marked by,
both strength and restraint.
With sorrow unearthed,
from this timeworn attic,
epiphany unfurls amidst,
despair and anguish—a beacon.
Fossils of joy cradle
our suffering when,
memories surge forth,
akin to an unrelenting tide.