Long Bed sheet Poems
Long Bed sheet Poems. Below are the most popular long Bed sheet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bed sheet poems by poem length and keyword.
Mr Spud Head is wearing a frown
Some eejit stole his wife’s best gown
His wife who’s called Myrtle
Looks like a gross turtle
Spud’s concerned that the chips are down
They’re going out, Myrtle gets dressed
But Spud Head sees she looks depressed
Her old gown doesn’t fit
And mis-shapes her left tit
She’s crying and looking distressed
Poor Spud Head must think on his feet
He whips off their king size bed sheet
Wife’s bod won’t be seen
Cos it’s Halloween
He’s keeping watch on what she’ll eat
There’s excellent news about Myrtle
She no longer looks like a turtle
Myrtle went on a diet
Spud insisted she try it
To ‘platewatchers’ she will now hurtle!
Cold walls line the filthy, darkened highway underground,
A breathless void, where daylight never makes a sound.
No leafy shroud to cloak my weary, rugged frame,
Dilated eyes, weak, trembling, and steeped in nameless shame.
I stagger on, my gaze a frantic, fearful sweep,
A rat squeaks, scurrying beneath my calloused feet.
A hand claws at my tattered bed sheet, sharp and cold,
Despair erupts—I cry for help, no hand to hold.
The night persists, its shadows choking every air,
An endless labyrinth, no solace, no escape to dare.
Hope, a fragile thread, is severed, faith undone,
Until a tiny glimmer breaks—a promise of the sun.
I race toward the light, its pull an urgent plea,
But footsteps echo—others run, and now they’re chasing me.
Whispers coil, screams pierce, a baby’s wailing cry,
The fragile glow is swallowed, lost within the tide.
And in that moment, truth descends—a heavy weight:
The darkness isn’t night alone, but woven into fate.
Burdens crush, deceit defiles, and spirits lose their fire,
The voices all around me sing of madness, not desire.
In this unending, bleak abyss beneath the ground,
We yearn for hope, yet drown in shadows that surround.
Still, faint and distant, light persists beyond the veil,
But bound in chains, our feet can't follow, frail and pale.
One night you dream the bed you’re sleeping on,
gets tired stuck in room, decides to fly out.
On wings of bed-sheet turning soaring swan,
it flutters away before you can shout.
You’re stunned to see the bed becomes a bird,
clutch in fear the flapping wings lest you fall.
Your wide open dazed eyes look up skyward,
sees the stars smiling at you as they crawl.
The bed flies smoothly to an unknown land,
where the winged sprites dance under scarlet sky,
wrap the flying bed with colorful strand.
It lands in flowery valley to lie.
You fall asleep soon on the rose-decked bed,
the unseen dreams you left in room return,
not in black and white, but in shades of red.
Into roses you see your desires turn.
______________
February 25, 2023
Syllable count : 10 per line (HMS)
Contest : Nursery Rhyme
Sponsored by : Eve Roper
Today, even the hills seem blue.
Unhappiness is just happiness ~
being torn to shreds by you.
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Lawyer: "But Bartleby, you've got to.
Pull yourself together, somehow,
and make a copy for me. Right now.
It's your sad lot to."
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Someone stomped on my heart with their feet.
There's the red blotch ~ on their soiled bed sheet.
Doesn't look like a heart anymore ~
more like an open, festering sore.
And ~ I'm not waiting around for a repeat.
You know what I wish for the most?
That we could drive once more up the California coast,
listening to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, and John Prine,
with me holding your hand, and you holding mine,
and not stopping ~ till we had safely crossed the fault line.
Here we are, finally at our loose ends,
with no more possibility for amends.
Our love's edges just got too frayed
for anyone to be able to come to our aide ~
no elf or fairy ~ who sews up, patches, or mends.
From Barcelona, she shipped me boots of Spanish leather,
with a note that said, "So you might get to understand Bob Dylan better."
And that's the last word
from her I ever heard,
and sadly, we never listened to Bob Dylan again together.
I made an appointment with me.
I was in need of some clarity.
I needed to know why it was
I felt like I was a lost cause.
And boy, did she act snottily.
The old tree on which I carved your name? ~
during last week's windstorm, down it came.
That staunch, indomitable oak,
that saw you prod and watched me poke,
is firewood now, ready for the flame.
I planned a trip to tropical island
accompanied by a group of close friends.
On way, one night we were compelled to spend
at rest house for a party that ran grand.
Sumptuous tasty food ! Each to relish.
Twelve guys with five young girls and seven boys :
Fountain of champagne with cheers ! Loud noise.
Whiskey, red wine, cocktail, mocktail : all finished.
Entertainment reached peak touching summit.
Against will, forced to drink lot turning tipsy.
Soon failed to open eyes , feeling drowsy.
Needed help to lie on bed , I admit.
As I woke up, my friends dragged me to shore.
When we arrived at island , I couldn't recollect.
Felt grateful to those who were to select
such a nice place to enchant and allure.
They told, how they carried me half sleepy.
All ridiculed me stating last night's event.
That's a part of clean fun and enjoyment.
Sea waves thrashed on beach ! Feeling so happy.
Wished to extend visit , staying alone,
for a longer period, few days more,
not only for scenic beauty but to explore
the tropical island turning each stone.
They left me on the solitary beach.
Slowly I was embowered with mist and fog.
Got alarmed on sudden howling of dogs.
Ran and ran to escape out of their reach.
Chased by dogs, tumbled, rolled and to slip !
Breathing heavy to run in hazy mist :
Had a great fall wrapping the thick bed sheet.
Woke up from the hang over and deep sleep.
tuckered and tucked in with him
ebb and flow of pillow head
personalities have dreams
we walk on the sea
we see no sun, with eyes shut
lily pads and no frog legs
and the sky’s a blinding blue
our feet toss and turn
pebbles rise into the clouds
a curious sight, indeed
even in the darkest night
distressing whale song
whistle salts breeze into face
we walk our separate ways
sleepy fits of temperament
hopeful peppermint
a couple buoys apart
harbor of port and starboard
ahoy, matey…don’t walk plank
drop splash to the deck
wakey…wakey…the seas wake
the blasting siren alarm
no one cares less where wave crests
it rests on the bed
that is the crumpled bed sheet
only need to straighten it
a boat left in the harbor
the sea’s now placid
DREAMING ON A FLYING BED
One night I found the old bed I sleep on
Got tired of confinement, decided to fly out
Bed sheet turned white wings of soaring swan
It started flying before I could even doubt
Could a bed really become a flying bird?
I clutched the flapping wings lest I fall
My bemused eyes looked up skyward
Saw stars beckoning me, I heard their call.
The bed flew to the other side of the globe
Where the golden sun rose in sky of splendor
The flying bed now draped in a colorful robe
Landed softly on a green valley of flower.
I soon fell asleep on the flower-decked bed
The unseen dreams I left in room returned
These weren’t in black and white but in red
Took the shape I desired, my heart patterned.
A flying bed the mind needs to invent in fantasy
See dreams in color painted by heart’s ecstasy.
March 29, 2018.
Locking the door is useless,
for he has a key...
Will that sliver of light
become a wider slice tonight,
or not?
Bed sheet covers are but flimsy barriers,
easily thrown off
by hands—
Hard working hands
that roam where they should not
Tuck you to bed,
tell you a fairy tale before you sleep,
kiss you good night.
They all hold different meanings,
they always do.
The moon is a silent witness,
peeking through the windows,
where shadows refuse to dance...
but creep
Innocent eyes of a doll
that weep
“Shhh,” he says
“This is love.”
But the pounding heart,
the screaming mind
know otherwise.
This isn’t love.
It never was.
The moon can only scream in silence
with her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun crashes in,
dissolving the darkness
but it never matters,
for the nightmare continues...
She’s there at the stove, cooking
eggs sunny-side up
He reads the newspaper
with a smile
Yet tears start to pool
as a timid voice says,
“Please, Mommy...
Why don’t you believe me?
The Boogie Man is real.”
September 16, 2011
091620111025p1050
1.
observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart
in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes
the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her
the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer
in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing
she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia
2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed
with its dark-room
when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green
the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings
evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta
putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon
there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet
it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms
yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation
3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
If time could rewind,
Then I'd fail my med school exam,
So no pain of being a doctor will ever be.
You need to be one to understand.
For I'd be relieved of long hours on call,
With no sleep, no rest, not even a doze,
Yet fresh work must begin the next day,
As if my bed took all my sedatives.
Legs struck with cramps during surgeries,
Eyes drained of vigour from restrained sleep,
Yet the brain must stay most alert,
Else their wigs and suits will bleed your pockets dry.
Work is done in currencies spent in dreams,
Rewards are paid in miserable coins to bank accounts,
Teachers frown at late school fees,
Landlords wave quit notices for overdue rent.
When the body begins to complain,
And mistakes seal up excellent procedures,
In their wigs and gowns they will order,
“Cease his license; he’s not capable.”
Yet the bed sheet that wrapped many years in emptiness,
Will now be used to soak tears for the rest of the years,
And on their lips will rest the cruel words:
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Your life is lived without fun,
Yet those in the so called noble profession lie in wait,
To milk dry twenty-five years of hard work with pain,
By then, grey hairs would have weakened the brain.
So what use are those years of heads buried in books,
When it's in dullard's pockets money is minted,
While you work as if work was yours alone,
So, time, can you go back to that med school exam, please?
Take your stethoscope, give me peace in its stead.