Long Bedrooms Poems
Long Bedrooms Poems. Below are the most popular long Bedrooms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bedrooms poems by poem length and keyword.
One man
Stands
Beneath his white helmet
And demands,
Silence.
Throughout Aleppo.
His stethoscope,
He attaches
To the dust
And listens
From his knees.
The man has
Ten fingers,
A dry brush
And a pair of pliers
To dig like an archeologist.
He does not have years,
But minutes
To search the ruins
For toes
That wiggle
Or mouths
That suckle
Or bleeding hearts
That still beat
Like tremors
In puddles of plaster.
When an apartment building
Of ten stories
Is bombed
By planes
Flown by strangers
And its hallways and closets
And bedrooms
And kitchens
And stairwells
Are pancaked
Into a single floor
Of wreckage
In seconds,
There can be tiny
Zigzagged
Crevices
With, but inches of space
And pockets of air
Left
Where
Former residents
May fill these places
With their slippery bodies
Poured like liquid
Into molds
That harden
While they wait
For a miraculous tap
From Above
Or Below
Or from the Sideways.
Sometimes,
The plaster and gravel
Molds
Blink
Back
With the brown eyes
Of a three year old
Or the trickle of blood
Can faintly be heard
Still flowing
Under
A mother’s skin
In
And through her veins.
To the rubble surgeon,
That is like seeing fireworks
Or hearing tubas,
So, he probes further.
Using his fingernails
Like scalpels,
He unearths
An elbow,
A shoulder,
A chest,
The belly,
Ankle bones
And then, the whole
Of the lightning-shaped body
Releases in one dusty swoop,
Scooped
Into both his hands
And raised above his head
As if on scales
And lifted to the emerald sky,
The weight of the world
Presented to the gods,
A broken body
And a scarred soul
But, yes,
Yes,
Pried
Alive
With the first cry of a second birth
From a saved person
Who’s
On
No one’s side
But for God's.
I think pink is a colour for the young,
It's also the colour of our tongue and lips,
And if we are
caucasian, even our hips.
Sugarplums, babies bums, shell-like ears are pink,
Some jewellery I think too,
Pearls, Beads and bangles, to mention just a few.
Pink champagne all froth and bubble,
Don't forget the pink flamingo,
Falling in love and all that trouble,
Of trying to hide that pink rosy glow,
Confectionery like candy floss,
That you can purchase at a fair,
Many other lollies are pink,
I'm sure you've had your share.
I can't think of any animal that is a shade of pink,
Except for the elephants,
One sees if they have had too much to drink!
Oh, what is the matter with me,
I gave my brain a jig.
Then I remembered, of course, the pig!
You can buy pink stationery,
Pink toilet rolls as well.
If you are young and in the pink,
Pink anything shops sell.
Pink bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen
Curtains and manchester galore,
Light fittings for walls and ceilings,
Carpet and tiles for the floor.
Pink balloons and festoons,
Banners and garlands and bunting,
Although a fox-hunters coat is red,
It's called pink when he goes hunting.
I'm feeling quite nauseous with this colour,
Although it was my favourite, many moons ago.
When I was young and in the pink,
All the young girls thought it so.
Poetry is a prayer to be received
And manifested through the aide of others, but!
The real prestige occurs when
The shape and effect of our creation
Begins and lives out its iridescent life in total surrender to the reader
While the spewer of the letters
Continues to brew a pot (slow, macabre strokes),
The task indiscriminate of prayer and proof
As the work of the poet become's the prophet's last frontier:
The heart's tongue over the mind's eye...
The Word blows over the sweet and rugged land like
A neverending prayer: and endlessly abiding acknowledgment
Of God's grace over his sweet and rugged people.
Their helpless prayers singing through the trees.
Their great gladness broadening with peace,
As all words bend and beg to be a present participle.
While all the whiling
The witches in their bedrooms
Lay claim to nothing,
Floating in their chairs.
Rumple Stein tapped his long,
sharp fingernails against the
bedroom wardrobe, making a
sound like dry bones clicking.
The children shivered as he
began his next ghoulish tale.
"Deep inside the dark closet,
a dusty, ancient mummy is
waking from its deep sleep,"
Rumple Stein hissed,
chuckling darkly.
"Its body is wrapped tightly in
yellowed, decaying bandages
that smell like ancient tombs.
Its face is hidden behind
grey, moldy cloths, leaving
only two hollow eyes glowing
in the dark.
When the house goes
completely quiet, its stiff, dry
fingers begin to twitch and
scratch.
It pushes the heavy wardrobe
door open with a slow,
agonizing creak.
The mummy stumbles across
your bedroom rug, dragging
its heavy, shuffling feet.
It is looking for the warm
bedrooms of children who
are still whispering and awake.
It leaves the trails of old,
crumbling dust and bits of
rotten cloth upon your
floorboards.
If you listen closely, you can
hear its dry wraps scraping
right now, a soft, sliding hiss.
It breathes with a hollow,
rattling gasp that sounds like
dry sand shifting in a box.
"Give me your warmth," the
mummy mumbles through its
ancient, crumbling mask.
If you do not close your noisy
eyes, it will reach into your cozy
bed.
It hands are freezing cold,
hardened by thousands of
years spent under the heavy
stone dirt.
It will unravel a long, dusty
strip of its rotten bandages to
tie around your ankles.
Then, it will drag you slowly
backward into the dark,
pitch- black wardrobe.
It will wrap you from head to
tor until you are a silent,
frozen mummy.
You will be trapped the
dark closet forever, unable to
move or make a single sound.
The dark shadows will
swallow you up, and you will
become part of the dusty
tomb.
So blow out your flickering
candle and bury your head
deep beneath the heavy
pillows.
Sleep now, little pharaohs,
before the mummy drags
you into the dark.
It’s said she’s an angel in disguise.
She grew up in a small French town,
Playing on her Re’ island’s shores.
She’s a mother now, and all that implies,
Routinely going about her nightly chores,
After working in the neighboring town.
Like many other soldiers’ wives,
Moving yet to another Army town,
She got used to packing and unpacking drawers
She followed me across the skies,
Without complaining or keeping scores.
Without ever seeming to get rundown;
Now that I’m retired, there’s no more goodbyes.
She doesn’t have to run the house alone.
Painting the bedrooms, fixing faucets and doors,
And finding other problems—SURPRISE!
Tearing carpeting off a real wood floor.
We now have a real house of our own.
Puffy fat potato heads, skinny stockings sewn,
bunched and hunched in bedrooms where
they’re scattered, scrapped, or thrown.
Clara, Dolly, Elmo, Sally, three wise sisters, Mr. mittens;
shoes and bags, skins in rags, scars from dog-teeth bitten.
Clothing torn, striped or plaid, missing parts they never had,
history’s pages on their faces; looking forlorn, sad.
Children’s memories locked inside, forever silent keeping .
Days caressed in sunshine blessed; or hugged, to stem the weeping.
Playmates past, forgotten days, lost within each one;
days recalled in tracing touch; teatime’s cradled fun.
Diaries of tearful words, smiles and laughter banking;
stories shared of lost pets found, a scolding, or a spanking.
Secrets gave in sacred trust; travels, hopes, and dreams;
stitched for unknown days ahead, inside their crooked seams.
Hands to Hold; Courage Given; needed tug or shove.
Closest Friends and Dearest Ones, Safety Nets of Love.
Refuge when the world at large; became too large to bear.
Afraid and lonely in the dark when only they were there.
We talk with all our Friends and Neighbors, Teacher, Husband, Wife
Long outgrown the need for dolls, to help us deal with life.
Fears and Trials, Tears and Laughter, shared in other ways;
but in our heart a prayer felt, and in our throat a lump still stays;
For none retain the deepest feelings only children show;
but those we clung to growing up, with love they could not know.
That secret room, of memories filled, with friends we’ll not forget.
All left behind in closets dark, who travel with us yet.
When I was growing up, I wasn’t given a tissue,
I was expected to stand on my feet,
I was told to find my own way in life,
I was expected to walk on the street,
Entitled to nothing, worked for my needs,
Never awarded for just showing up,
And folks talked honest, hard and harsh words,
I’d sweat to earn me a buck,
But millennials these days, the softest on Earth,
Expect things without raising a hand,
And the things they demand are to fabricate life,
Real feelings they just don’t understand,
Too busy in bedrooms, glued to the net,
Pretending is their main mistake,
Experiencing real, honest and fair is for me,
While it seems they prefer to be fake.
HOUSE OF PAIN
The structure itself is a shrine to the past with a pain so built in, it forever will last.
The walls that once rang with love, laughter and cheer, now echo with silence drab and drear.
The table where meals and games were had, now has only two seats, just a mom and a dad.
The bedrooms are empty, there’s no one there, the toys packed away, even old teddy bear.
The halls once filled with the excitement of play, now serve just as passage to get through the day.
The basement that housed an imagination station, has morphed into just a storage location.
The garage that once housed the tools of fun, is a place where children no longer run.
The yard that played host to gardens, fires and football, is now barren space where the grass grows tall.
The driveway once littered with bikes and bright chalk, has been transformed only into ground where the occupants walk.
Trains, legos and pictures are all put away, as objective reminders of a much brighter day.
Kids stories and books that were read before bed, are now words on a page that will never be said.
Those special Holiday times with so much to do, have become merely seasons to just muddle through.
The house itself stands as a strong memory to what once was and never more shall be.
Host to a loving family.
even in a crowd
one can still find solitude—
silence not required
My children got me a subscription one of those services that sends me a weekly prompt, usually something about my childhood, to help get those creative juices flowing. One of those prompts read, “when you were a child, did you have to share a bedroom and possibly a bed with your siblings?”
Wait a doggone second guys. Do you mean to tell me that sleeping alone when you were a child is a real thing? Man, when I was growing up back in Wakenda, I recall the biggest house we ever lived in had four bedrooms. I know that a four-bedroom house might sound like a mansion but when you throw in the fact that there were more kids than you could count without using your toes, plus mom and dad, that sure didn’t leave much space. Heck, even after I joined the Army, depending on where I was stationed, I had to share a bedroom with 4 to 12 other people. Then I got married and spent each night of my life sharing a bed. After all those years, I’m not sure I could sleep a whole night without the sound of snoring and an occasional fart drifting out from under the covers.
THE DAY MY LIFE BEGAN
The day my life began, my friends,
Was back in nineteen sixty-two.
It was a romantic story,
That I'll now relate to you
When Mum and Dad first married,
Things were hard for a time.
There wasn’t much money for luxuries;
They had to watch every dime.
They lived with Gran and Granddad,
Though they yearned to be alone.
While they scrimped and saved to raise the cash
To buy a house of their own.
They worked all the hours God gave them,
‘Til they put a deposit down
On a house with two small bedrooms,
On the poorer side of town.
Moving day came round at last
And they hired a van for the day.
They couldn’t afford a removal firm,
So that was the only way.
With the help of friends and family,
They did it all in one load
And soon their goods and chattels
Were stacked in their new abode.
The last box was safely unloaded
And Dad returned the van.
They celebrated later that night …
And that’s when my life began.
4h April 2020
The day my life went Whaco contest
Sponsor - Caren Kritsinger