Long Attics Poems
Long Attics Poems. Below are the most popular long Attics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Attics poems by poem length and keyword.
Old age is
Legs made of crumbs, fingers becoming twigs
uneven floors and squeeze toys becoming hazardous
clusters of friends becoming spirits on the wing
all the others squat in attics or linger in the eaves.
If lucky enough, you get to hug a loved one once a week.
Old age is
a favorite hymn fleeing one note at a time
playground giggles skipping youth back into the light...
Chasing a sunrise after shuffling from the chains of night.
old age is a star and firefly slowly becoming one.
Old age is
pretending there's a piece of this world that still cares.
Reaching for a bowlegged tabby that's no longer there.
It's a silver-haired orphan opening another cold can of alone...
A universe of humanity becoming a Hawkins black hole.
Memories like lemon drops slipping from life's crystal bowl.
A trickster stripping away grace and tact long before you're gone.
Grandma Wisdom once said, "Old age isn't for sissies".
A cold rain is coming; I can feel it deep in my bones."
Suicide Watch
Time meter swings from a rope in the attics and antics of my mind
barbed in chronicles tentacles of raven swallows ingesting ticking
seconds away from under the duvet of spaced out stretches spell
bound in dyslexic dysfunction in grammar distorted the syntax all
black depicting semantic delusion of clock work’s terminal peace
Deep down and under scratched surfaces of doom awaits another
measure of a different frame mounted shattered fragmentation
evolving from void into the tentative tether awakenings in memories
of a future revisited of a kinder place swinging happily meandering
when the pastures of pleasure and passion mix jubilant exaltation
I am a yo-yo a Ying Yang a fool and a wise man jester and clown
casting dazzling shadows on the mosaic of life through a lens like
a bird on a wire full flight ahead hanging on with a claw’s lacerated
tears and the tempo’s rhythm pulsing heart-breaking truths in the
fallacy of certainty of composure unity and unchanging fortification
Through depression I have received growth enrichment clarity in
regards of the jungle of meaning and live to tell the story of what
reality checks balances juggles foreboding trepidation into calm
composition back and beyond a force forthright and forthwith in
the spur of the moment eternal and fleeting and that's who I am
Sui generis in Ego-cidal watch positioned and roped in by the Self
23rd November 1959 - 19th September 2016
What Is It
1.
The man who was my father sits
Wearing the face that will be mine,
Brooding in a place I cannot reach
In a time and space I'll never know
Speaks,when he does, as he never did before.
And so it comes to this, in the end
At least for far too many;
Live long enough,
The mind wearies of its ceaseless
Chasing after things,
Turns in, settles into the greyish No-Mans' Land
Of its Long-Ago,
The attics where the past lives on,
Where the fond and familiar reside.
Not so bad to settle there, I suppose,
Where everything moves through a better light,
Where the rough and uncertain
Goes smoothed and simplified;
The familiar rules, the strange is banned.
The price though, the loss, the erasure
Of so much of the Now;
All that which has travelled with you
Faded to obscurity
And you live among the unknown ghosts.
What better way to spend a rainy afternoon in May,
Than with Grandma in her attic where precious memories lay.
This was her treasure trove, cherished things dear to her heart,
About which she reminisced with us, delightful tales to impart!
She cuddled her yellowed wedding gown with a far-away look in her eye,
And told of Grandpa's tender love for her with a wistful sigh.
From a trunk she took a photo of them taken on their wedding day.
Even from the misty past, deep and abiding love it did portray.
A faded photograph showed Grandpa, so very handsome and grand,
In the uniform of his country, that he volunteered to defend.
She showed us Grandpa's army uniform, pride swelled within her breast.
She shed a tear holding the flag, presented when he was laid to rest.
She fondled a gold pocket watch that she gave him as a bride.
It ran for nigh on sixty years, mysteriously stopping when he died.
With trembling lips she kissed a golden pendant and had this to say,
"It was given to me by your Grandpa on our blissful wedding day."
She played a waltz on the old Victrola and whirled about the room.
Her eyes shone so brightly and her face assumed a youthful bloom.
Grandma is united with Grandpa now, they've ended their earthly quest.
With their love and traditions, our family was truly, truly blessed!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Constance's "I Am Sending You A Gift Of Poetry, Dear Heart" Contest-Sep 10
Inspired by the poem "Old Trunk" written by Constance - A Rambling Poet
In old trunks and attics are stored many precious memories!
I'm sending you this, my gift of poetry, dear heart, from my trove of poems.
Where are guardians of Quality?
Are they still able to quantify?
Or do we need to re specify,
What is obvious to a fly.
Quality of life is now hard to come by,
Quality goods are mostly stored in attics,
Quality work is seldom done with quality tools,
Quality food if not cheap is left to rot.
Is equality for all really obtainable?
When only the lucky few sit at the top table,
Even when proved unstable,
Their shelf life, unbelievable.
Where are the guardians of quality?
Do they ever feel guilty?
Of their refusal to wear glasses that could rectify,
Their inability to quantify.
Has false economy,
Taken pride of place in our memory?
For all eternity.
The answer to that I have yet to quantify.
I feel like a dope,
For not giving up hope,
In finding a quality telescope,
Instead of a kaleidoscope.
suddenly the beauty fades
and the masquerade becomes a crimson deluge
somewhere out of nowhere, incoherence reveals her uglier side
the stone soup of badly timed revelation is pure poison
the rocks thrown at my routine dream bloodies the strength of the center and blockades the solidity of my little world
suddenly enough is a microorganism growing impatient via the knowledge within the maturation
i become a victim of your black confetti surprise party
i want you to taste the bloody black jello of my misery
however you get the flavor of my personal version of icy cold detachment
all the ladders are now worn and badly damage
all the attics are infested and offend with the stench of incompleteness and indecisiveness
suddenly my brain goes in circles in endless speeds like a defiant spinning top
i wish i could give my own brain a hassan chop
maybe then all sense within me will finally come together
however my journey will still never really have a true blue definition
Whither the true gentleman who holds the door open for a lady
Whither the noble scout, escorting an elderly matron 'cross the street
Whither the friendly officer who greets me as I pass him on his beat
Whither the shopkeeper who knows my name, who seeks my welfare
Whither chivalry? Where has it fled?
Where are the gallant knights in shining armor today?
The gentleman? --passed on, bidding farewell to a world where he has no place
The noble scout? --become timid and weak, emasculated by equality's
relentless drumbeat
The friendly officer? --grown mean and wary, cowed by violent lawlessness
The shopkeeper? --relic of an age that is no more, replaced by a faceless
superstore
Chivalry? --buried in the annals of history
beside gallant knights in shining armor
languishing in cobweb-covered attics
rusted helmets shuttered forever
(The Days That Followed)
The dust began to settle, but the silence didn't lift, The skies were clear and empty, a strange and sudden shift. But then the colors started, a bloom against the gray, As we woke up to the morning of the distinct "next day." Do you remember how the porches changed, the windows and the cars? A sudden sea of stripes, a sudden field of stars.
It wasn't ordered from above, no mandate or decree, It rippled out from house to house, from sea to shining sea. The tattered cloth from attics, the stickers on the glass, The small lapels on heavy coats watching the seasons pass. We signaled to each other, a code we understood: I am here, and you are here, and standing here is good.
Then came the twilight gatherings, the parks and village squares, The Fracturing of darkness with the light of silent prayers. Do you recall the paper cups, the wax upon the hand? A million tiny flickers lit the contours of the land. We stood on high school football fields and city capital steps, We stood in quiet driveways, taking measured, deeply breaths.
The fracture broke the frantic pace, the rushing and the race, And left a gentle patience in the open, wounded space. We looked strictly at the pavement, then we looked up at the eyes, And found a kindness waiting there, a comforting surprise. The way we held the doors a bit, the way we let folks in, The way that grief had peeled away the thickness of our skin.
We healed by being near, by simply standing close, The remedy for terror was the thing we needed most. For in the days that followed, when the world felt fragile/new, The Fracturing revealed the bond that held us—me and you. The candle burns down to the wick, the flags eventually fade, But never lose the memory of the promise that we made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We did not inherit the yard~
we seized it,
marked its borders
with stick-swords
and the broken spines
of action figures.
The porch was never just a porch—
it was the prow of a ship,
a courtroom bench,
a makeshift classroom,
the lip of a volcano.
We named it ours
by the sheer weight
of our footprints.
Attics were not for storage~
they were kingdoms
where we ruled with cardboard crowns
and whispered secrets to the spiders.
The ladder groaned beneath us,
but what did it know of borders?
Even fences were negotiable~
every knothole a spyglass,
every loose board a backdoor.
The neighbors’ oak
was our watchtower,
its branches heavy with the crime
of our trespass.
Childhood isn’t a game you win.
It’s the scrape of knees
on forbidden rooftops,
the click of a latch
that wasn’t meant
for your hands.
It’s the map you drew in defiance
of keep out and no and don’t you dare~
then folded into your pocket,
like a stolen territorial flag.
you may read the related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_girl_in_the_garage_13643
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing
with powder puffs sans canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble, and liberal took a page
from playbook of Pandora, and took an aimless swing
at the root cause of melee by hurling objet’s d’art
at the pompous trump ping
Septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric that made America great
wantonly reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when Whistler Blowers
getting water boarded and aching
deigning to implement dictatorship
of the Proletariat as a capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths
viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic
twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by the New York Nicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries
with limping bodies spent like derricks
Oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.
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