Long Bench Poems
Long Bench Poems. Below are the most popular long Bench by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bench poems by poem length and keyword.
Thirty six years of gather and store,
Every shelf overflowing with crap,
And we decide what we think is important to keep,
And what’s to be thrown for scrap.
From old cassette tapes, records and books,
To cups, cooking spoons and pans,
We begin to empty the house of all that’s inside,
Simply by using our hands
Leaving a shell of a home for a whole new begin,
Old walls, a ceiling and floor,
Where I will create a new healthy fresh,
With new oven, new bench tops and more.
I’ve returned to the house where mum and dad lived,
I now will no longer roam,
I’ve begun to clear out the years rusted on,
To restore my family home.
When you are glum, fed up and exhausted,
Take a walk in solitude, on a deserted footpath
Lost in your thoughts, when you step on
Dry, ill, pale orange leaves,
Disturbing the silence by their shrieks of protests
When your heart open a window of joy
And your feet actually search for more Crimson leaves
To crush them all beneath
In all these noisy sweet melodies and colors
When you forget your pains…. remember me!!
When you look up at the sky
That changes hues from blue to dark
Then turn into a shower
To purge you along all
And you walk in empty streets soaked in water
And jump mischievously in a pit
To make the muddy waters fly up to hug you
And you smile and do it again, and again,
In those joys movements
when you are yourself, remember me!!
When you rescue an injured butterfly
Or watch the splendors of dusk and dawn
And When you walk for hours beneath the stars
Or wait to see waning gibbous moon raising in dark
In these ethereal movements
when you admire nature, remember me
And when you see a little bird struggling to fly
Or see an old couple sitting on a bench holding hands
Or a kid smiling in their Sleep
In such pure moments
when life seems but beauty, remember me!!
My wife and I proud of our luscious lawn,
Some mischievous children took a shortcut
Strode on the grass, each like an evil fawn,
We old couple could not the passage shut.
No doubt, we were thoroughly angry mad.
How dare these unruly brats spoil our grass?
For soon after school these young became bad,
Their footprints left an ugly midway pass.
Could we elders change to enjoy our green?
We filled the path with tiles, planted flowers.
Surely the verdant lawn would now look clean,
Bought a new bench where we could rest for hours.
The children grateful soon became our friends,
They ran errands for us to make amends.
The reference to my wife is fiction.
The Empty Bench
Sayings for a friends – Kimberly - photo cards.
(1) A lone sentry watches in silence, the silence.
Waiting to comfort, for company, for companionship,
for conversation, for the silence to be permeated
by some life, any life, as life eventually does, and often.
(2) Alone sentinel stands, watching - waiting in silence
to be of comfort for the weary – to be companion for the lonely,
to be the ear for conversation – to be the voice that permeates
the silences in ones life that surly come to one and all.
(3) A bench sitting in Mother Nature’s quiet hours,
enjoying the silence, those peaceful moments
that surrounds the essence of an entity
and that come out from deep within.
To fill the empty space Linda,
a bonus for your pleasure – if it be ?
A barren, silver orb floating on high – a rocky place
drifting around, along in the cold recesses of space.
Upon its tattered surface, a pock- marked face
taken on its round and round – endless race.
To what ?, to where ?, and what the hell for ?
Life’s destructive debris striking it more and more.
Leaving craters, large, small, hollow and deep
as they press ever onward, into the heart -
of the matter - killing any possible start
for new life, the soul, spirit, heart – away will seep
into that black hole abyss – life’s fires never to keep
alight – no more reasons to keep up the fight.
Left with nothing more - only a desire to take flight.
Written words are the only emotions.
Life no longer in fluid motions,
with meaning for one or for all
as life takes that spiral fall.
B. J. “A” 2
August 9th 2004
Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.
Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.
I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages,
sweat and lay down
under a fierce fluorescence.
Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous sound of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.
They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.
Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.
Washing spins on.
The kindly old lamplighter ambled about the village green,
Lighting lamps to add a glow to that Norman Rockwell scene!
Sitting on a bench in the shadows to reminisce for awhile,
He recalled many by-gone scenes that evoked a wistful smile!
At Yuletide, carolers stood 'neath the lamps singing joyful songs,
To herald the birth of The Savior to the happy, strolling throngs.
Huge, feathery snowflakes drifted gently to the earth.
The lamps' mellow glow brightening faces adding to the mirth!
Young lovers stood 'neath secluded lamps in passionate embrace.
Recalling his youthful days, a knowing smile creased his weathered face.
Silver-crowned sweethearts paused 'neath lamps to reminisce.
She'd give him a playful slap should he try to steal a kiss!
Watching kids playing marbles 'neath a lamp was a delight.
How he longed to join them, but they'd think him an awful fright!
Lamp poles were a refuge to which clung the town ne'er-do-well.
On Saturday nights the constable escorted him to his usual cell!
For nigh on fifty years he'd tended the lamps on the village square.
He'd seen just about everything 'neath the lamps' revealing glare.
Now, his soul refreshed with memories, he slowly trudged away,
To return on the 'morrow to dim the lamps at dawn of a new-born day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
How can it be October?
The months are flying by,
But now’s the time for raking leaves
And eating pumpkin pie.
Get set to dig out sweaters
And squeeze toes in cozy socks.
The nights will come on earlier
For soon we’ll change the clocks.
The days of sitting on a bench
Are drawing to an end.
More hours in the house will be
Too many hours to spend.
With travel, theater, sports and such
Curtailed or put on hold,
This autumn will be different from
All others we’ve extolled.
Yet still, it is October
And the foliage awaits,
With better shades of orange
Than we’ll see at the debates.
I woke long before he did,
quietly slipped from his side
and donned his warm woolen robe.
As difficult as 'twas to leave him,
to have awakened him—
I'd never have been able
to leave his bed.
This morning, what I sought
was not his heart to please,
but what I saw in a dream
that held me captive until I woke.
And now, I had to see for myself
if the vision that stirred me in sleep
was in truth where I knew it would be.
Quietly, I stirred the fire
to keep warm his bedroom
now that my body would not warm his.
Down the wide stairway treads,
I tiptoed to the door leading to his garden.
Snow had lightly fallen o'er night
and everything within sight
had been covered with crystals of frost.
I felt as if I was lost in a wonderland,
but only for a moment
for I had to find what my dream rendered.
I surrendered to the need to see
what my reverie urged me to seek—
the last rose of summer.
Petals, once velvet to my touch
had fallen from other flowers
and lie frozen on the walkways—
their color faded and gone, all but one.
Through the archway, I walked to find her,
still in bloom but in the sullen gloom
of this chilled hoarfrost morn,
I mourned for her as she stood alone.
I sat on the bench nearest her,
a tear caught in the corner of my eye
threatening to fall. A sigh
escaped my lips as I reached
to touch her with a fingertip
but feared I'd be the cause of
her demise if my touch broke her.
I felt his warm hands on my shoulders,
but not a word did he need speak.
He sat beside me and at last,
warms tears ran down my cheeks.
It was the last rose of summer in my dream.
How quickly time had flown from bud to bloom
and now she was withered, near her end.
Her blush, once beautiful—
had paled and soon she would fall
to the garden soil— still beautiful to me.
Her kindred companions had met their demise
but to life she clung, alone except for me
and the man who quietly sat by my side.
I had no desire to hide anything from him—
He led me inside and back to bed,
for he knew I dreaded seeing the moment she fell
among the dropped petals of her sisters.
Beside me he stayed, as sleep closed my eyes.
This man, who knew me so well—
the garden keeper; keeper of my heart.
*With apologies to Thomas Moore
They tell me I must not share this secret
I have discovered after so much searching
I must keep it to myself lest I spoil
the twist that takes place three quarters
of the way through as if life is little more
than a movie and I an actress cast
in a starring role forced by the studio
to sign an NDA in my blood stating
I sacrifice my soul to Hades and give my
body up to be ripped to shreds by the
sharp teeth of the three heads of Cerberus
if I dare to have the audacity to violate it
So I seat myself silently at a table in a library
or at a bus stop or a train station
or on a bench in a park where parents
watch over their children as they play
flipping through old photo albums
filled with pictures of people who
have long since passed away along
with places which no longer exist today
showing them to anyone that sits down
beside me before asking if they recognize
any of the many they see then when they
invariably answer, “No. What does it matter?”
I reply, “Exactly”
Have you ever really heard
The sweet twitter of the night bird,
Flying towards the refuge trees:
It's like the sighing of a breeze.
Two lovers sit on make shift bench,
Strangely they spoke in makeshift French,
Hoping their sweet whispers would please:
It's like the sighing of a breeze.
A boy and a girl ate their meal,
Time for play, oh just hear them squeal
The children run and laugh and tease:
It's like the sighing of a breeze.
The parents discuss the future
Their love, growth, success and nature
Their love mature, their hands they squeeze:
It's like the sighing of a breeze.
God sees all of His creation,
The beauty of their vocation
Like the greenery of the trees:
It's like the sighing of a breeze.